


Sea Asunder

by cupcakentea



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Regency, Angst, Arranged Marriage Between Harry and OMC, Artist Louis Tomlinson, Eventual Happy Ending, F/F, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gender Exploration, Gender Identity, Happy Ending, Historical, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Smut, Mutual Pining, OT5 Friendship (One Direction), Painter Louis Tomlinson, Pining, Portrait de la jeune fille en feu | Portrait of a Lady on Fire (2019) - Freeform, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 10:14:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 68,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27968894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cupcakentea/pseuds/cupcakentea
Summary: It’s only then, as Anne elegantly sits at the other end of the table, that Louis realises there’s a third set of cutlery and plate laid out on the side between them. She feels something twist in her belly, right when the sound of small heels coming closer echoes from the drawing room.She looks at Anne’s side, where the door she came from remains ajar. But she realises, as the steps slow down, that the one on hers is wide open. She feels the hair on her neck standing up slightly with what feels like a shift in the very atmosphere of the room. A gravitational pull that passes right by her side with no words, no sound, just a disturbance of the air.There she is.A Portrait of a Lady on Fire AU
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson, Zayn Malik/Liam Payne
Comments: 20
Kudos: 36
Collections: Girl Direction Winter Fic Fest





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Lauren and Megan for working so hard on this fest and being so patient with me !  
> An enormous thank you to my beta [bananamission](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bananamission) for being willing to edit this with so little time and doing such a beautiful job of it. I couldn't have finished this without you.  
> And thank you to the person who submitted this prompt. POALOF is one of my favourite films ever, and with the whole page 28 thing, I've thought about this without ever being brave enough to actually dive in. So, thank you for making me brave.  
> I've loved writing this one and hope you like it too.
> 
> [Here is the playlist for the entire fic](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3yyRksoMlS4JCBxEusdhf4?si=r75fDfMNR9GOx1Ll_ifEAg), I'll add the playlist for each chapter in the notes.  
> If anyone is interested, [here is a virtual tour of the place that inspired the manor](https://storage.net-fs.com/hosting/6173668/7/index.htm) (which isn't in Britanny irl but still in France). Just click to "vers le chateau" to reach it !
> 
> **Please do not repost this work on any other website. I don't allow translations at the moment**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Playlist for this chapter](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2rg7q7GbCEYuOAsgOPqNAB?si=Ub1mhTzbQ3-yOH0yXkXxRQ)

There's nothing as far as the eye can see, sky blending in with the sea, only disturbed in their merging by the wooden rowing boat that bobs up and down. There's a vigour in the water today and Louis can definitely feel it in the waves, in the spindrift and the distinct smell of salt that's already clinging to her overcoat and her hair.

The wind blows in bursts, short but harsh, filled with the early winter. Combined with the overwhelming presence of water around her, Louis is left chilled down to her bones. The silence of her fellow travellers might also be a contributing factor. There’s been no word exchanged between the three men escorting her and Louis herself since they left Quiberon more than half an hour ago. The rowing, however, has been constant, a sure way to fight the cold settling over their embarkation and their bodies.

Louis looks up from her companions’ faces, eyes getting lost in the sea once more. Sitting still, lulled by the current, exhaustion is slowly but surely washing over her. The journey from Paris had been long and gruelling, spent on roads muddied by the November weather. Humidity and cold spread their wings throughout _la province_ , breathing dampness in the stuffy coach Louis had to travel in for days. Even the occasional stop in town to stretch their legs and eat had done nothing to appease Louis’ pent up energy, and the family travelling with her had only been a source of noise and aggravation. There was no comfort to be found with them. But even their never-ending talks were better than the stifling silence on the boat. A few minutes later, a streak of brownish-grey appears, barely there. Louis has to squint her eyes to focus: from afar, the cliffs are nothing but pebbles punctuating the horizon. Nevertheless, she lifts her index, pointing it to the others.

“ _Guedel_ ,” says one of the men, gaze barely lifting from the row he’s holding before going back to it, unperturbed. The sound rings strangely in the air, it’s hard edges finally broken.

“What?” she asks, not sure of what she heard.

“ _Guedel_ ,” answers another one, “that’s her name. Though you probably only know her as Belle-Île if you don’t speak Breton. You’re not from here," he adds, staring at her with the finest sneer on his features.

She nods. “Belle-Île-en-Mer, yes,” she turns to face the land, “how do you say it… Guedel?”

“Guedel,” the later repeats with an air of finality, his expression fading before he resumes rowing.

As the boat gently sways closer to the shore, Louis keeps studying the land. The cliffs are sharp, their silhouette starkly cutting at the sky with teeth-like peaks. The ocean keeps crashing against them in a desperate attempt to reach them, to bring down the mocking stone. Relentless in its folly. There is some green too, barely sketched but present, coiffing the top of the closer hills like seafoam, sparse bushes everywhere. If she squints, she can see heather too.

They berth a few meters from a beach and one of the men takes Louis’ things, hoisting burlap bags on his shoulder, leaving her to deal with her tools. Painstakingly, she lifts the heavy wooden frame and the narrow box that was safely nestled by her feet and attempts to get out of the boat while keeping both from getting wet. 

Her skirts are heavy with water as she treads in the waves, shoes slipping on smooth stones. The frame dips in the water briefly but it’s enough to have Louis losing her balance, falling almost completely in the ocean, both hands stretching towards the sky to save what she can.

The man is watching her when she steps on the sand, chest heaving with deep breaths. 

He jerks his head towards a narrow path that splits the hill in half and they start walking, silence settling once more, grating on Louis’ frayed nerves.

“Sorry we didn’t use the port, Miss,” the sailor starts, “the Lady said this way was faster.”

Louis lets out a sigh, hand squeezing the rope attached to the frame on her back. “It’s okay,” she half-lies, “they’ll probably have a fire burning already.” 

To that, the man nods. As they reach the top of the path, Louis lifts her head for the first time, breath frozen in her lungs.

The moors spread far into the horizon, wild purple and white dotting the landscape like paint specks, forgotten brushstrokes. Along the coast, further east, small lights shine and flicker to testify the existence of a town there. The blue hour hasn’t fully descended yet, but the orange and yellow pinpricks are distinct, noticeable with the way they twinkle. The cliff rises on the west, keeping her from seeing if another city lies beyond. 

Straight ahead, blurred by the distance, there’s a house. A manor really, something close to a castle, Louis thinks, with how far they are from it and how big it seems already.

“That’s the one,” her companion confirms as if their presence on this part of the island could mean anything else, “should be another 20 minutes walk.” Louis’ bags slide off his shoulders. He lets them.

“You’re not accompanying me further, I guess,” she says with a nod to the bags, already knowing his answer. She still sighs when he shakes his head, her fingers already reaching for what he’s dropped down. 

“Good luck with your work, Miss,” the man says as he walks away, not turning back once the entire time Louis watches him leave. She straightens her shoulders, mind drifting to thoughts of fire and warmth while her legs shake from the cold. She picks up all of her belongings and starts walking.

When she received the letter commissioning her, Louis had not paid any mind to the technicalities of the mission apart from the fact that she’d be far from home. That itself had almost been enough to make her accept: a month far from Paris, from her father’s studio and far from his words, remarks, critiques of her work. Of herself, sometimes, when he felt like he could get away with it or away from Louis’ quick tongue fast enough to not receive a rebuff. There was a specific type of mad stubbornness to it, the way he’d keep picking at her, knowing very well that nothing that he could say would change her ways. A reprieve from it sounded heavenly. The promised payment had finished convincing her.

But as she finally reaches the main door of the imposing building after what seems like hours, Louis’ hopes to find some of the material comforts she left behind back in Paris. Only the front steps separate her from being inside the protective walls.

A gust of wind blows as her raised hand knocks on the door, shivering when it rasps against the wood. There’s a minute of silence, maybe two, while the air keeps whistling angrily at her ears. Then the door opens, revealing a feminine face shrouded in shadows, lit from underneath by flickering flame.

“Hello, I’m Louis Tomlinson,” she starts, encouraged by the small smile the girl is giving her, “I think you’ve been expecting me.” She hates how her tone rises at the end, how it sounds like a question. A voice that sounds distinctly like her father’s whispers that she’s right, she should not be so confident. That women shouldn’t be.

“We were,” the girl - a young woman, really, probably around her own age - says, “please do come in.” She gestures Louis in, opening the door wider to let her through. As soon as the door shuts behind her with a clang that resonates in the hall, Louis feels her body being embraced, engulfed in the warmth of the house.

The entrance is welcoming, black and white stone tiles glimmering in the glow of candles set in the corners of the room. It seems to spill forward into what looks like a ballroom : Louis can see the darkening sky through its elongated windows, standing tall like bridges linking the manor to the surrounding moors. There’s another glow coming from a room on the right, door ajar to silence. On the opposite side, wide stairs lead to places bathed in darkness and more steps to what should be the upper floors. But, instead, the girl is leading her towards a small door almost hidden in the wall.

They descend a few steps, heading straight into the mudroom, the girl helping Louis taking off her coat, tools and bags. “You’re soaked, Miss”

Louis almost forgot, too taken with the careful examination of her surroundings. She smiles slowly as she takes in the shivers that still rake through her body.

“No need to call me Miss. Call me Louis instead,” she replies, tilting her head towards the woman in what she hopes is a sign of amiability. From the way the girl nods back, it does the trick. “May I ask your name?” she continues in the same tone.

“Liam,” says the woman in what almost sounds like excitement. Liam’s demeanour is open and friendly, her gaze gentle on Louis as she assesses the state of her clothes. They’re no longer dripping, but Louis can feel the water weighing her down. “You need to change and to warm up,” Liam states, walking up to the door on their left and through what looks like the pantry to lead Louis in the kitchen. Embers are warming a cauldron in the fireplace, the mouthwatering smell of whatever is inside wafting in the air, reminding Louis that she has not eaten since the morning. She suddenly feels as if her stomach is turning on itself with hunger, her body too preoccupied with the cold to notice it before. It lets out a small growl and Louis rests her hands against her belly as if it could quiet it down.

Liam is fussing on the other side of the room, hands coming to grab plate, spoon and glass with the ease of someone who has been living there for a while. She lays everything on the table that stands in the middle of the space, on the end closer to the fire. 

“Thank you, Liam,” Louis acknowledges, drawing the chair back to sit down. Liam still putters around, filling Louis’ plate with what has been tickling her nose: a vegetable stew, enriched with a meaty flavour and a generous amount of potatoes. She digs in before Liam has the time to cut her a slice of bread, the meal slowly but surely warming her insides. Liam laughs, a barely-there puff of amused breath, and Louis lifts her head from her plate to grin at her before patting the chair closest to her.

“You’re a maid here,” she asks, gaze inquiring, although Liam’s behaviour so far has only reinforced that impression. One of the ladies of the house would not be the one opening the door at this late hour and probably not with the clothes Liam is wearing: a simple brownish dress in heavy cloth, skirts protected by a stained apron.

Sure enough, Liam nods. “There’s three of us normally. Me, Niall and Erell. But Erell has been helping the oldest Miss to settle.” 

Louis stops eating for a second, hoping to prompt Liam to explain more. She goes on: “the oldest Miss got married months ago. Gemma, that’s her name. The Lady wanted Erell to keep her company, make the move easier on her.” 

Liam looks to the side, outside, gaze lost into one of the small windows spaced out up high on the walls. She turns back. “It seems to be going much better now from what Erell has written to us, maybe she’ll come back in the following months. But I don’t think you’ll stay long enough to get to meet her, from what I’ve heard.”

“Alright,” Louis says, pondering over the information and saving it for late night thinking, “what about you and… Niall was it? Anything I need to know about how things work here?” 

“Haven’t you been in a house like this before,” Liam asks as if the idea was the strangest thing she could think of. It couldn’t be, and Louis is pretty sure she’d know a lot of other girls who wouldn’t have either, so she shakes her head without shame.

“Can’t say I have. I have visited the homes of friends and clients, but I never stayed long enough to have to wonder about the… etiquette. I need to learn the ways of the Lady and her daughter. And yours too, of course. I don’t want to be a rude guest,” Louis states, fingers dragging a piece of bread through the leftover sauce in her plate before gingerly eating it, mindful of not spilling anything. Liam smiles again as if entertained by Louis’ manners.

“Well, me and Niall both take care of the house. Cooking, cleaning, laundry, you name it. We take turns on the different tasks, try to keep things stimulating.”

Louis whistles at that, eyes going wide, earning a small chuckle from Liam.

“Sounds like an awful lot of work,” she says, eyes darting to the ceiling as if she could see each layer of the house, “from what I saw on the way here, it’s a big home.”

“Yeah, it is,” Liam nods, “but only four people are living here at the moment, and that includes me and Niall. Well, five now,” she smiles, “but I feel like you won’t need our assistance like the Lady and the Miss do.”

“Yes, don’t worry about that,” Louis says in what she hopes is a placating voice, “I think I’ll manage fine on my own.”

“We’ve got the meals, the cleaning and the laundry covered though,” Liam states, a twinkle in her eyes.

“And I’ll happily leave all of that to you.” 

There is a beat of silence as Louis munches on her last piece of bread, fingertips tracing around the shape of her spoon. She glances at Liam, picturing in her head what the other inhabitants of the house could look like.

“Can I ask where Niall is?” she says, Liam’s inquiring expression pushing her to add, “I’m sorry, as you’ll figure out, I’m awfully curious and I generally don’t stop myself from asking things.”

“She’s helping the Miss to bed. She ate early tonight, her and the Lady did,” Liam trails off.

“Ah, I’ll need to adapt to the schedule then,” Louis grins. At that, Liam shrugs.

“I’m not sure you do, they don’t eat early that often,” she glances at Louis, pondering, “maybe the Miss was nervous to meet you. Didn’t want to face someone new yet. Generally,in any case, we can keep things warm, and you can eat when you prefer. ”

Louis drains the last of her drink, mouth filling with the tang of red wine. She runs her tongue against her teeth, tasting, before asking what’s been on her mind since she’d first read the letter commissioning her.

“What does she know about me, your Miss?”

Liam shrugs again, but this time half heartedly. “I don’t know much. I think the Lady told her you’d be keeping her company for a while now that her sister is gone. She definitely could use some, she hasn’t been the same in a long time. Even before her sister left, she wasn’t the same as before.”

“What was she like? Before, I mean.”

“Light,” Liam says, like an evidence, “always joyful, laughing and playing. She and her sister would roam the island and come back covered in mud. I remember the laundry that usually entailed,” she adds with a smile, small, tucked in the corner of her lips. “She’s always had her moments where she’d disappear for a while or she’d spend days in quiet. But it wasn’t like this.”

“Like what,” Louis asks, attention suspended to Liam’s lips.

“Withdrawn,” Liam says, eyes downcast, “sad.”

Louis swallows around something in her throat, and silence settles on them once more. This time it lingers, seeping in the cracks left behind by the conversation. Liam gets up, picking up Louis’ dishes before washing them in one of the sinks, the sound of splashing water filling the air like white noise. She disappears for a few seconds, coming back with Louis’ bags, arms struggling to hold everything. Louis hurries to take the large frame and box from her.

“Let’s get you to your room,” Liam says before leading Louis towards one of the doors on the opposite wall. They’re in the corridor only for a brief moment, Liam opening another door to reveal a spiral staircase built in stone. They climb the steps, not stopping to the first landing but going higher, to the second one. Liam’s hand pushes on a wooden pane, guiding them into a new corridor lit by the moon rays streaming in through the tall windows, stone tiles traded for parquet.

“There’s a washing room right here,” Liam whispers as she points the door on their right, adding “you should use it tonight, you probably need it,” but Louis is already shaking her head, not wanting to bother Liam more than she already had for the evening.

As they walk on, they hear soft voices coming from the wall. “The Miss’ room,” Liam says as they pass a door. The wood creaks with the weight of their feet and the voices stop. But Liam walks on and after a quick glance at the door, at its handle, Louis follows her. They stop again in front of the next one but this time Liam enters, lighting up a few candles as she floats across the corners of the room. The gentle glow reveals a bedroom with some flourish, furniture simple but well made, the wood sleek under Louis’ palm. A double bed rests on one side of the room, head pushed against the wall, a chest of drawers, a writing desk and a comfortable looking armchair mostly completing the inventory. Louis’ steps are muffled by the carpet as she walks further in, closer to the same tall windows that she’s noticed in the higher levels of the house. The moors are barely visible now, grass bending in waves with the wind, a slight drizzle hitting the glass pane as if attempting to stroke Louis’ face. “You should take off your clothes and warm yourself up,” Liam says from where she’s busy reviving the embers in the fireplace, putting two smaller logs in, “it should keep going all night but don’t hesitate to put more if needed.” She stands up, brushing her ashy hands on her apron. “Anything else I can help with?”

“No, thank you Liam, I think I’m all good. Is it alright for me to put my clothes in the drawers? I don’t have much but I’d like to get everything out of the bag if possible.”

“Of course,” Liam hurries out, making an aborted move as if she wants to put Louis’ clothes to safety herself. Louis clutches one of her bags closer, effectively stopping her. “The room is yours to use as long as you’re here. You can paint here, there’s a screen there to hide your work if needed,” she points at gathered panes by the desk, “but you can also use the attic. No one goes there anymore, you wouldn’t be bothered. But I’m not sure if the lighting is as good up there,” she ponders, gaze getting lost again.

“I’ll figure it out, don’t worry,” Louis says, lips tugging upwards at Liam’s careful consideration, “but I wouldn’t mind a tour of the house if you or Niall can make time for it.” Liam nods immediately, and they both stand for a few seconds looking at each other, gently assessing.

“I’ll leave you to it then,” Liam says, making her way out. “Thank you for everything,” Louis quips, hand resting on the doorknob, “I’ll see you tomorrow.” She closes the door after seeing Liam waving goodbye.

She takes her clothes off, folding everything over the smaller chair by one of the windows. She opens her bags then, trying to set everything that got wet aside to have it dry on top of the laid out screen, before doing the same with her box of brushes and paints, fanning them out on the desk. The frame is next: the canvases it held are a bit wet, but nothing that the warmth of the fire won’t fix. She sets them against the fireplace, taking a few moments to dry herself too. Drops have collected on her navel, in her bellybutton, and there’s dampness still clinging to her arms. She feels dipped in dew, head to toe. But she’s too exhausted to wait longer, body sliding over to the bed and under the covers, hoping that getting some rest will chase the deep cold that’s making her shiver. As soon as her body stops moving, she falls asleep.

Thinking back on it, Louis should have stayed near the fire longer. She should have said yes when Liam offered to fix her a bath. Because when she wakes up, her sweat has already drenched the bedsheets gathered around her shivering limbs. She feels too cold and too hot all at once, uncomfortable even as she’s still drowsy with sleepiness. A silhouette stands by the fire, distinctly Liam shaped, filling what looks like a brass bed warmer with hot coal. 

When she turns, she startles.

“You’re awake,” she says with disbelief in her voice. Louis tries to look at her, to sit up in the bed but Liam placates her with a hand on her shoulder.

“No moving, you really frightened us. You’ve been sleeping for almost the entire day,” she states, making Louis turn her hand to the side, looking at the pitch-black sky. “I mean, you were mumbling and sometimes it was as if you were starting to wake, but you never were fully there.”

Louis tries to speak at that, finds her voice raspy with disuse: “I don’t remember.”

Liam lifts the covers, sweeping the warmer on top of the mattress before helping Louis roll over and taking care of where she laid as well.

“I’m not surprised. Me and Niall have been checking on you. You don’t have much of a fever, so I’d say you just caught a mean cold. You should be all done tomorrow, or the day after if you sleep it off a bit more. We just didn’t want to presume of your health,” she trails off, as if embarrassed. She goes to fetch something on the desk that looks and smells like soup, making Louis’ throat swallow reflexively around emptiness. 

While Liam feeds her, Louis feels her mind fuzzing again, her head filling up with cotton. 

“I hid your canvases and the brushes and the paint, just in case,” Liam adds, head tilted to the screen where Louis’ clothes are still drying. Louis nods her thank you, head barely moving.

She’s already lying back when Liam stands up, gathering the bowl and spoon away before adding a blanket on top of Louis’ duvet. “Rest,” she says, “we’ll take care of you, don’t worry.” Her retreating form is the last thing Louis sees before diving back into darkness.

Someone else is there when Louis comes to. She feels off, everything too slow and fuzzy at the edges, but her eyes still lock on the body draped in shadows. It’s not Liam, hair a bit shorter than hers and curlier from what the flickering flames sketch in the darkness. Oddly, the strands fall free on her shoulders, untidy and untied. As if the woman was just lounging, not expecting to meet with anyone unfamiliar. She is looking at Louis, face barely discernible in the low glow. She steps towards Louis and it’s only then that Louis notices the cup in her hand, smoke swirling above the rim. She sits on the chair by the head of Louis’ bed and Louis automatically sits up, the haziness from sickness keeping her from feeling fully unnerved. 

She’s still troubled though, because now that the girl is much closer to her, Louis can’t help noticing how pretty she is. The flickers of the fire dance on her features, eyes focused on Louis’, her nose leading down to plush lips, their shape accentuated by the shadow they cast on her cheek and her chin. Her eyes are dark, colours and details lost in the half-light and Louis feeling like she’s dreaming. A hand comes to her shoulder, settling against her nightgown, the other one bringing the cup to Louis’ mouth and letting her drink. The warm herbal liquid settles in her belly, pooling there with something else as she keeps looking at the stranger. When she’s done drinking, she taps her teeth against the cup, earning a quip of the woman’s upper lip. The hint of a smile. 

She sets the cup aside, leaning down to grab something, her hand never leaving Louis’ shoulder, fingertips brushing against the cloth from time to time like a nervous twitch. She sits back and brushes Louis’ forehead with something cool, a wet flannel that feels like heaven against her heated skin. The presses are gentle, the stranger lifting Louis’ hair with her fingers before wiping her face slowly. She guides Louis’ face, cleans her neck meticulously, the touch of her hand leaving pinpricks on Louis’ skin. Louis feels each of her limbs going lax under the attentive care, dissolving in the sheets.

It’s over too soon. The woman gathers the flannel, the cup, the small bowl that was set on the floor and stands up to exit. Not before squeezing Louis’s shoulder one last time, fingers grazing her clavicle as they trail off, unwilling to leave.

Louis watches her in silence. Watches as she turns once before opening the door, her eyes lingering on Louis form, then a second time as she closes the door, gaze lost in Louis’ own.

As she looks at the place the woman stood, Louis wonders how difficult working here will become now that she wants to kiss one of the maids.

She’s not out of bed the following day and Liam diligently cares for her, trying her best to entertain her as Louis remains awake for most of the day. She promises Liam she’ll join the next trip to the nearby village, her forced convalescence making her antsy. She finds herself staring at the moors visible from the windows of her room, craving to feel the breeze on her face and to observe the changing hues of nature as the day trickles by. Louis tries not to think of her unknown visitor too much, helped by the fact that she doesn’t come back. Liam tells her that Niall has been helping the Lady with several tasks around the house and Louis really tries to not have her absence dampen her mood. That’s what she tells herself when she finds her thoughts floating back to the curly locks shining with the flicker of flames.

It’s a relief when she gets up the next day, gently woken up by Liam and helped to a warm bath. She soaps herself thoroughly, washing away the sweat that comes with illness and the grime that remains from her travels, mostly untouched in the simple cleaning she’d received before.

“Let me help you with that,” Louis says, trying to reach for the bundle of sheets perched on Liam’s arms.

“No need, I’ve got it,” she answers before jerking her head to the door leading to the staircase, “I won’t mind you opening that for me though. Let’s get you in the kitchen, there are some leftovers from breakfast.”

Louis’ hand reaches for the wall as they climb down the steps, wary of any remaining unsteadiness. But they make it to the bottom landing with no accident, Liam disappearing in an adjacent room that Louis hasn’t seen yet. 

There’s someone in the kitchen - a woman, busy at the fire, hands moving around and dropping things in the large cooking pot hanging above the flames. Louis has the time to glance at her hair, braided and tied together in a crown, before she turns to reveal a gentle face, pale in the sunrays, with a smooth mouth and clear blue eyes. She smiles at Louis, a kind expression spreading across her face and Louis wonders - unless she’s counted wrong which is possible, she was never good with mathematics - why the Miss of the house is preparing the meals.

“Glad to see you awake,” the girl says with a joyous lilt, “we never managed to get introduced properly, I’m Niall.”

_Oh no._

“I’m Louis, pleased to meet you,’ Louis offers, not wanting to let her silence settle on for too long even if she feels like she’s just stepped into quicksand. “Liam told me you took care of me when I was ill, so thank you very much. I have to say I have no memory of it, but you both clearly did a great job,” she adds, her hand coming to wipe over herself as if to show her body as proof. It earns her a grin from Niall.

“You’re very welcome,” she says easily, “sit down, I’ll bring you something. You must be hungry.”

Louis does as she’s asked and watches Niall putters about, feeling a dejà-vu washing over her. There’s almost an inadequacy to think of her time here marked by one of the girls feeding her in a place she has not explored yet. She muses about it as she presses her thumb on the table, caressing a spot where the wood had knotted itself. Her gaze falls onto Liam as she reenters the room, arms bare of any laundry but hands wet. As she watches her and Niall moving around the room, she feels a warmth settle in her chest. There’s a sweet familiarity in the way their bodies live in the same space, rarely touching without ever stopping. The dance of two friends, easy with time, obvious in the way Liam gives Niall a knife without her asking. 

There’s a smile on Louis’ face when Niall puts down her plate on the table, covered with bread and cheese and an omelette. She murmurs her thanks and tucks in, realising how hungry she’s been as she begins eating.

“So, are you planning on starting the painting soon,” Niall enquiries as she washes something in the sink.

“Well I’ve got to say, I’d need to see the subject of the painting before making any plans,” Louis smirks, breaking off a piece of bread.

“She saw you,” Liam quips from where she’s sat, head tilted to the handkerchief she’s embroidering, “she brought you tea at some point but if you didn’t remember Niall you probably don’t remember her.”

There’s something gripping at Louis’ insides, twisting it into knots of dread and excitement and nervousness. It’s not as if she didn’t realise upon seeing Niall. But still, to have Liam’s confirmation does something to her, as if she’s just dipped her head underwater for too long. 

“I think I remember,” she says then, “but it was dark, I couldn’t notice what she looks like very much”. 

“Not sure you’ll be able to today either,” Niall ponders and Louis gives her her full attention then. “She says she’s not feeling well today, barely ate breakfast.”

“I hope I didn’t pass onto her whatever I’ve suffered,” Louis says then, fighting the knots that keep growing inside her stomach.

“Oh no, no don’t worry,” Niall says, a soapy hand coming up to halt whatever guilt she might feel, “it happens often. She generally feels better after a day or two. It’s not her health, it’s her mood.”

Liam seems to agree, nodding her head.

“I told you, she’s nervous,” she says. That makes Niall chuckles, a strong chime of a sound.

“That I can confirm,” she grins at the suddy water.

In the end, Niall is the one who takes Louis on a tour of the manor while Liam takes care of the most pressing chores. The maid leads her through the first floor first, walking through an ornate dining room to the living room, both separated by a wall supported on both sides by chimneys. The rooms are large but not overly so, making Louis feel at ease in these surroundings, eyes drifting to the moulding on the ceiling. She doesn’t enter the boudoir, a tiny thing of a room stuffed with books and thick wall covering which reminds her of a confessional or the alcove of a theater. Her favourite is the sitting room, right at the angle of the house. The windows are even bigger there, letting in the rays of light through their decorations and creating moving images on the parquet. It warms the air and the atmosphere, Niall’s face turning to face the sun, eyes lost in the tall grass outside. There are a few rooms Louis hasn’t seen on the second floor, but they’re not for her to explore : Gemma’s old room is close to hers, sharing the landing of the main stairs with the Lady’s bedroom. Niall mentions a small study hidden by the staff’s staircase but warns her in the same breath that it is only Harry’s to use and the image of Louis’ nightly visitor hiding herself from view in a cramped nook just fuels her curiosity.

The third level, built under the roof, is almost entirely for the maids, housing Niall and Liam’s rooms as well as Erell’s unused one. Niall shows Louis the linen room before leading her on the opposite side of the building to a large, dusty room, some corners taken by sheet-covered mounds. 

“It’s things we don’t use anymore. Or not often enough,” Niall says, hands brushing over a few items, leaving clouds of grey in her wake, sparkling in the empty air.

Louis appraises the light in the room, oddly plentiful for an attic. The windows, despite being smaller than in the lower levels of the house, are numerous, letting the sun stream in to hit the creaky wooden floor.

“If you ever want to hide, whether it’s for painting or anything else, this is the place to come to,” Niall adds with a gentle tug of her lips, pointedly not looking at Louis as she lets her explore this new space. Louis hums in answer, fingers trailing on some of the sheets, itching to uncover the forgotten things they protect.

They finish their tour by going back to the first floor, right in front of the entrance. The space looks vastly different from Louis’ memories, the atmosphere less intimidating in the daylight. As Niall coaxes her into the ballroom, Louis is struck by how detached from the rest of the house it feels. There’s more grandeur here, pretense ringing within the walls. But the room doesn’t look uninviting : padded benches and chairs are strategically placed around the room, welcoming, leaving enough space in the middle to dance if guests were so inclined. A few tables are pushed towards the end of the room, hinting that it hasn’t been used for its first purpose in a while. But the small chandeliers glint still, twinkling amusedly, ready to witness a new evening of celebration and merriness.

Louis lets herself soak the space in, just as she did for all the other rooms Niall had shown her, feeling more at peace with spending several weeks in a house she’s now fully explored. As her eyes drift around the room, she notices an upright piano tucked in a corner, as if hiding away, in plain sight. She can see a thin coat of dust on its cover from where she stands, one that isn’t on the other furniture, and her fingers itch to brush it off and touch the keys tenderly. Instead, she turns around.

As she joins Niall on the threshold, the click of a door opening breaks the silence. A woman stands in the doorway of the room right by the front door. Louis remembers seeing the pane slightly ajar on the night of her arrival.

The woman is older than her, older than Liam or Niall or than what the Miss had looked like shrouded in darkness. There are grooves by her eyes, signs of smiles that lingered along the years, and others between her brows. Worry etched in her skin. Her eyes are set on her, calm and tranquil.

“Louis Tomlinson, I presume. I’m Anne,” the Lady says, prompting Louis into bending slightly, barely hinting at a reverence and a formal greeting.

“My pleasure,” she answers.

“Come into my office,” Anne gestures her in, “Niall, could you bring us some tea, please?”

Niall disappears with a smile and a nod.

Anne smoothly points at an armchair for Louis to sit before taking a seat on the opposite. She seems to appraise Louis, letting her gaze roam on her from her shoes to her hair. Louis prefers to look at the room, the burgundy walls, the tchotchkes in glass cases, the stacks of papers precariously perched on the desk. There’s a moment of silence as both women finish their study before letting their eyes meet. Anne’s lips are slightly raised, the early sketch of a smile, and Louis feels her body unclench slowly.

“I’m sorry we haven’t been able to meet earlier and even more so that your first experience of my house was one of illness,” Anne starts off, words gentle, edge dulled but still palpable. 

“There’s no need to apologize. My illness is the result of my own recklessness and I should have listened to Liam’s advice when I arrived here soaked to the bone. But Niall and her have done wonders to help me back to my feet. I can’t thank them, or you, enough,” Louis counters, hands now folded in her lap, back straightened and still.

Anne nods, accepts her gratitude. “I hope you’ve had time to settle comfortably even with all this unexpected unpleasantness.”

It’s Louis’s turn to nod, “Liam and Niall took care of me beautifully, and the room is more than comfortable.”

“Will it suffice to paint? I asked them to show you the last room of the upper floor but I wasn’t sure which space you’d prefer to make yours. You’re welcomed to both, and to whatever else you might need.”

There it was. Finally, Louis could ask the question that had been running through her mind.

“I’ll see whichever is more fitting,” she starts before pausing, letting the silence stretch like sticky toffee, “your first letter, even if thoroughly convincing, as my presence can attest, was not very… informative. On what this painting and job entailed.”

There’s a knock on the door right as Louis finishes her sentence and Niall comes in at Anne’s command, a silver tray balanced on her hip. The girl carefully sets two cups and saucers on the small table between Louis and Anne, filling them with what smells like herbal tea, before adding a small plate covered in delicious-looking biscuits and cut apples in the centre. 

Anne thanks her with a smile, waiting for her departure before picking up her cup, twirling the liquid with her spoon. She seems to be thinking about her answer, her expression only breaking when Louis reaches out to pick one of the buttery offerings. It crumbles deliciously in her mouth and whatever appears on her face at the taste seems to please Anne.

“It’s true I wasn’t the most forthcoming or informative when I wrote to you. It felt too urgent to waste time with details.” She takes a sip, gives a sigh, starts again, “my eldest girl got married seven months ago. It was easy to manage, Gemma has always had the desire to marry and she took well to her husband, a wonderful Breton count. They’d met each other a few times before as he lives not too far and made a great match.”

Louis nods once, trying to understand what ties this story to her presence here.

“Harry, her sister, she’s not of the same...nature,” Anne adds, eyes drifting to the bottom of her cup. “She’s never been interested in marriage, never responded to the few men who have shown their interest in the last years. It’s never been an issue since Gemma was older and therefore the priority. But Harry is getting older now too, and I feel like her sister living really pushed her inwards.” Anne looks up, gaze drifting to the window opening up to the front of the manor. “I think she needs a change, something drastically different to shake her out of her torpor and bring spirit back into her. And something happened that might be exactly that,” she says, waiting a few moments before continuing. “I received a proposal from an English Duke, the son of an old friend of my family. He’s just inherited his father’s title and he’s now looking for a wife to cement his own lineage. His land and home is much larger than ours, very close to Bath and I know for a fact that his family is very fond of London in the season.”

Louis’ chest is already constricting with each of Anne’s words. If life as a painter has never been easy, especially being a woman, there was never an ounce of her that envied the price to pay to access a life of luxury. She tries to quell her uneasiness by drinking her tea, but it settles all wrong in her stomach, tepid and cloying.

“I see. Is Harry aware of the proposal?” she can’t help but ask.

Anne looks at her then, almost assessing. “She is. To say she is not pleased would be an understatement. However I’m not giving up on her seeing what is to gain for her in this arrangement.”

Louis nods at that, trying hard to not conjure in her mind the blurry lines of the woman’s face. “I’ve been to London before. Maybe I can try to mention some things I found appealing?” she says, trying to find a fine balance between what she feels and what the conversation demands.

Anne practically beams, “You have? How wonderful! I have to say I miss England very much and I know Harry would love it there, especially the city. I could even visit her sometimes,” she sighs. “Were you visiting for work?”

“I was, with my father,” Louis answers, “he always delights in seeing what the rest of Europe can do and London exhibitions are very renowned.” She tilts her head in what she hopes translates as respectful consideration. 

“I like exhibitions. I discovered his work in one of them. In Paris, last July I think, or perhaps June? Anyway, yours was there too, I believe,” she says and adds at Louis’ nod, “truly remarkable. Your models’ expressions were always very striking. They left an impression. That’s why I chose you for this.”

Louis smiles, taking the compliment to heart. She sips her drink again, finding it more agreeable. “I’m painting her portrait for her future husband, is that it?”

“Yes,” Anne replies with no hesitation, calm and precise, not shying away from the cutting truth. “However, as I mentioned in my letter, she doesn’t know you’re painting her.”

“I remember. This is the part I think needs to be to be clarified the most,” Louis says with a curious smile, prompting one from Anne in answer.

“I can’t say I’m surprised, it did feel like an unusual query when writing it,” she chuckles slightly, “Harry won’t pose.”

The words have Louis set her cup back on the table. “She won’t pose?”

“No, she won’t pose. I’m guessing she thinks that it will keep her portrait from being done and that not having anything to project his hopes on will deter the Duke.”

Louis smiles at that, her hand reaching up to try and hide the reaction from Anne. Luckily, her eyes seem to be focused on the wind-swept moors outside.

“I told her that a friends’ daughter would come to keep her company. That’s you. I was rather vague about it, so you’re free to imagine whatever helps you most if she has questions. But she can’t know you’re studying her. You’ll need to do exactly that, look at her when you’re together, and then put everything you can on your canvas when you’re not. That’s how you’ll need to paint this portrait,” she says, letting these odd conditions float in the space between them before turning fully towards Louis. “Do you think you can do it?”

This time, Louis doesn’t bother hiding her smile, the thrill of challenge thrumming through her body.

“I know I can.”

If Louis thought her discussion with Anne would suddenly mean getting to know her subject, the rest of the day proves her wrong. As Niall and Liam had warned her, Harry stays hidden from sight the entire day. Her absence is almost palpable in the air, the possibility of catching a glimpse of her silhouette heavy on Louis’ mind. But her anticipation is not rewarded : Harry eats in her room, only visited by Liam who brings her food up and then her empty dishes back in the kitchen. Louis dines with Anne at her request, a meal that isn’t as tense or awkward as Louis would have expected. Anne is still cautiously warm but not without conversation, not hesitating to ask questions about Louis’ life and her craft, her experiences with the parisian scene or even her travels. Louis learns a lot in return about Anne’s early years spent in England, raised in the northern countryside, as well as her move to Brittany. 

She ends up taking a nightcap with Niall and Liam in the kitchen, more at ease in what she’s coming to identify as the heart of the house. There’s familiarity in the heat of the fire, the lingering smell of food in the air and the laughter of two women her age who have earned their rest as night falls upon them. She tells Niall she’ll join her with her food shopping in the morning if she isn’t able to paint, before leaving them both on the landing of the second floor.

The parquet creaks under her feet, breaking the eerie silence that enveloped the hallway. Louis feels herself slowing her steps, almost involuntarily, before stopping in front of the first door. There’s no noise then, just the breeze caressing the windows, moonlight filling the house and lighting the door, touching its handle. 

There’s a soft sound coming from inside, then another, closer. Like soft feet on the ground, muffled, too light to disturb the wood apart from tiny whines here and there. They stop and Louis stops breathing, feeling her breath being sucked from her lungs right from the other side of the door. Something brushes against it, subtle, gentle, and Louis breathes out, eyes blinking rapidly to shake out the desire to turn the handle. Before she knows it, she closes the distance with her bedroom door, gets in, and lands on the bed, limbs akimbo and chest heaving. Her skin is raised in goosebumps and she looks at it in the blue light, fingers coming to touch the hair on her arm.

As she bundles her body in the bedsheets, she tries to chase from her mind any thought of the neighbouring room. And, as her eyes land on one of the canvasses still leaning against the open screen, she fails.

Harry is still not out of her room when Louis awakens nor when she finds Liam and Niall in the kitchen.

“Guess you’ll be accompanying me like you said then,” Niall says, tone expectant but joyful. It’s drawing a smile out of Louis and she nods.

“Indeed my morning seems to be completely free.”

After grabbing a quick bite, they pick up capes and coats from the mudroom, securing scarves around their necks at Liam’s advice and baskets at the crook of their elbows.

Louis takes a deep invigorating breath as soon as she steps out, having kept indoors for a while now. Despite the warm welcome of the women of the house and the kind atmosphere that reigns within the walls, Louis’ life and habits in Paris fill her with the desire to go out and explore her environment whenever she feels like it. Here, she’s on a mission, her time spent chasing someone that does not want to be found for now. Louis grew up in a big home and patience was a natural result of being the eldest of a gaggle of children. But even this hasn’t equipped her to deal with what feels more like a robbery of her agency than a game of cat and mouse. Her eyes take in the land that stretches in front of them, the moors speckled with taller flowers, unwavering green catching the blue of the sky. Maybe she wouldn’t feel the same if the person subjecting her to this predicament was someone else. Someone who had felt less like a wonderful apparition, a siren, a fae. Someone not emerging out of shadows and flames.

She tilts her heads to the clouds, looking at how some crumble away in the heavens, others darkening like ink on paper. She stumbles on a bump in the ground and Niall’s arm shoots out to keep her upright.

“Let’s focus on where we’re walking, eh?”

They chat a bit along the way, exchanging stories of their early years as the village comes closer into view. Louis learns that Niall’s mother died when she was young, leaving her alone with her father, a well-loved baker established on the mainland. Louis tells her about the passing of her own mom, about trying to keep her four sisters out of trouble and to manage the eccentricities of her father. They smile at each other with something like recognition as they pass the small dwelling that marks the limit of the village.

Niall shows Louis around the place, hopping from one small shop to another, always happily greeted by their respective owners. They gather a sizable loot : some vegetables and fruits from an old couple, fresh fish traded in the small port and a beautiful cut of beef from a butcher that looked quite taken with Niall. It takes them a little over an hour, every person they buy from taking the opportunity for a bit of a chat in what feels like a slow morning for the town.

“Got one last stop to make,” Niall chirps up as she leads them to a small shop, a painted overhanging sign reading “apothicaire” in a looped handwriting.

The door whines when Niall pushes it open, letting the cold air in the small room. Louis’ can’t stop from eyeing everything around her. There are jars filling up the wall behind the counter, dried plants and flowers tied to the ceiling by colourful strings, their herbal perfume soothing her somehow. Some tins are filed in a sideboard pushed against another wall, their labels yellowed with time or grime. All of them bear the same handwriting as the sign outside. Niall doesn’t hesitate before coming to rest her arms on the counter, knocking on the wood twice with her bitten-red knuckles.

“Zayn,” she calls like one would call a beloved child.

A girl comes out of the open door from what must be the mixing room. She’s graceful, features set in an angular face, warm fawn-brown skin stretching over her cheekbones and jawline. She reminds Louis of statues men would carve out from stone, touched by grace. Her dark eyes set on Niall and a gentle smile spreads on her lips, lighting her being with a serene affection.

“Hi Niall,” she says, tone matching her looks. Her gaze settles on Louis, appraising her from her toes to her hair without letting anything of her findings show when she’s done. “Who’s this then?”

“Zayn, say hi to Louis,” Niall answers.

“Hi Louis,” Zayn says back with a playful smirk that amuses Louis greatly.

“Hi Zayn,” she grins.

“Louis is the person I told you about. The one who has to paint Harry,” Niall adds, trying to ease the introduction past any awkwardness that might erupt. That bit of information sparks a twinkle in Zayn’s eye and Louis wonders how much of the mission Niall had explained.

“Oh that must be exciting. Painting someone who doesn’t want to be painted. How is it going?” she asks as if responding to Louis’ thoughts.

“Terribly,” Louis chuckles. “I haven’t seen her yet,” she lies, and Zayn’s brow rises slightly at that, a silent questioning. But Louis doesn’t add anything.

“I’m sure your luck will turn around,” Zayn says, tranquil and assured.

Niall interrupts their exchange to ask about medicine she needs to pick up. Apparently, introducing Louis to Zayn was not the only reason behind her visit. They talk for a bit as Zayn readies Niall’s order and Louis busies herself with trying to identify all of the flowers gathered in the glass containers right in front of her. She still keeps her ears open to the conversation, taking notice of how often Liam’s name is being mentioned and how Zayn’s features soften each time. It’s fleeting and barely there, but what good painter doesn’t pride themselves in their impeccable observation skills? The smoothing of skin, the relaxing of muscles, the colour that rises in the cheeks, gently darkening them. All these signs make Louis tilt her head with amusement.

After a few more minutes, Zayn is done wrapping the wooden boxes in a careful package and hands them over to Niall. They say their goodbyes and head for the door but as Louis opens it, Zayn suddenly quips up.

“Louis, come back next time anyone needs something. I’d love to hear about how your project is going.” There’s no malice on her face or in her words, only mirth tucked at the corners of her grin, and Louis finds herself nodding with one of her own on her lips.

The journey back to the manor is longer than it seemed outward, but that heavily relies on the fact that Niall suggests they walk along the cliffs. It’s a detour, but a rewarding one. Louis had admired the views from the water, the stoney walls towering over the sea. But now, standing at the edge of the land, it’s the sea that seems powerful and infinite. The waves crash on the clusters, their war cry never ending, overwhelming in its splendour. Smaller ones die on the beaches that run along the escarpments, kissing the sand in a dying breath before returning to bluer depths.

Louis’ fingers twitch with the urge to draw a keepsake, something to bring back to life the movement of the foam as it fizzes out on the earth. So many shades of navy, of picotee and periwinkle, azure in the water peaks. There’s even the colour of the morning sun, right there, where the star lays to rest every day.

At some point, they have no choice but to turn away from the sea to head back to the house. The wind has picked up and Louis can feel it biting at her skin despite the many layers she has on. Niall doesn’t seem to fare much better : her cheeks are red with cold, nose deep into the wool of her scarf.

The relief is instant when they enter the house, its warmth welcoming them like a mother opens her arms for a child seeking solace. They hurry down the stairs to the kitchen, spurred on by the unspoken promise of a fire burning. Niall is the first to emerge from her coats, expert hands making quick work of undressing herself. She picks up all of their shopping and heads for the kitchen as Louis still struggles with her buttons. She manages after a few seconds and tries to give a hand to Niall but is quickly shooed away with a simple “go have a bit of rest, we’ll come to fetch you for dinner if you’re asked for.”

Once in her room, Louis feels at a loss with what to do. She feels untethered, standing in the middle of the room, the middle of the house, with nothing to do. Or more precisely, not being able to do what she’s come to do. There’s restlessness in her limbs that’s spreading to her mind like vines, growing and sprouting new leaves in forgotten corners.

As she tries to clear out her thoughts, the solution appears very easily and she walks to the open screen, fingers trailing on its edge as she looks behind to her canvases and tools. She picks up one of her sketching books as well as her coal filled tin before settling in the chair by the window. Gaze exploring the open landscape in front of her, she lets her eyes guide her fingers until darkness blankets the world.

There’s a knock on her door much later, Liam’s face appearing, lit by a candle she’s holding. “The Lady wants to know if you’re joining them for dinner,” she says, her voice breaking the quiet atmosphere Louis had gotten used to in the last hours. As she blinks, she realises how late it is, her eyes tired from discerning the landscape with the sun long gone. She nods, a small “of course” slipping out from her mouth as she stands to put away her drawings and materials.

She lets Liam lead her to the dining room and settles in the same chair as the previous day. She feels slightly off-kilter, mind still thinking about details that needed more care on her sketch, not paying attention to anything around her until Anne walks into the room and greets her. It’s only then, as Anne elegantly sits at the other end of the table, that Louis realises there’s a third set of cutlery and plate laid out on the side between them. She feels something twist in her belly, right when the sound of small heels coming closer echoes from the drawing room. 

She looks at Anne’s side, where the door she came from remains ajar. But she realises, as the steps slow down, that the one on hers is wide open. She feels the hair on her neck standing up slightly with what feels like a shift in the very atmosphere of the room. A gravitational pull that passes right by her side with no words, no sound, just a disturbance of the air.

There she is.

She sits down just as gracefully as her mother has moments before, right in the periphery of Louis’ vision. Louis doesn’t want to turn her head yet: she wants to pick the right moment to really see.

“Thank you for blessing us with your presence,” Anne says with a tone that wills itself playful, hiding the barest hint of reprimand.

“My pleasure,” she says back, her voice deeper than what Louis imagined, smooth like a stone slowly polished by the sea. Salty.

Niall appears from the hidden door, arms bearing a soup tureen wafting a delicious smell, and Louis takes her entrance as a chance to discover the reason for her presence here.

Harry is as pretty as she remembers. Even more so now that her features aren’t hidden in the shadows. Her hair is gathered up, rebellious curls framing her face, ears peeking out from them. Brows straight, clear eyes set on Niall with a barely there twinkle, the candlelight allowing them to shine. The slope of her nose is as Louis imagined it when her mind thought about running the tip of a finger on it. No hesitation in its line. Slightly wider, maybe, but fitting with the rest. Her mouth is cutely shaped, bitten pink, cupid leaving his bow on her top lip. Louis wants to trace every bit of her with her hands, capture it all on paper slowly to not miss a thing. One that would be as white as Harry’s skin to better draw the beauty marks that dot it like fairies’ kisses.

If Zayn was a statue, Harry is a painting. There’s no perfection there but a magnetic intensity, a movement that cannot be quite caught or captured in stone. It needs shifting light. Thousands of hues and pigments. The caress of a brush to express the quiet way Harry’s hair touches the cloth of her dress with every breath she takes. The twitch in her eyebrow that tries to chase a thought. The fine line on the side of her mouth, the hint of laughter already passed.

Louis shifts her gaze away, refocuses it on Niall who’s serving Anne. When she comes up to Harry, there’s a kind familiarity in the way Harry shifts slightly to give better access to her plate, trying to help without breaking out of her posture. It’s Louis' turn then, and she chooses to look up at Niall, lifting her plate without restraint, blatantly uncaring of the fact that she’s not really expected to help the maid. She smiles openly at her too, prompting Niall’s lips to twitch in response. There’s a breath of air on her right and Louis’ eyes meet Harry’s when she lowers her gaze. 

They’re green.

To know that feels revolutionary, and Louis’ smile widens even more. But Harry’s eyes are already settled on her plate, prompting it to fall from Louis’ lips slowly. There’s no dejection, no sadness.

_They’re green._

“How was your day Louis?” Anne inquires, “Liam told me you went into town with Niall.” Louis nods, grin growing back on her face.

“I did! It’s a lovely place to be. The people are very welcoming and warm. The right opposite of the weather,” she adds in what she hopes is a rather charming tone. Her gaze drifts to Niall’s raised brow which almost stirs a giggle in her lungs but she tamps it down, preferring to check Harry who hasn’t moved an inch. She’s still meticulously eating her stew. Although there’s an oddness there: her tongue meets her spoon first, before retreating with everything in her mouth. The gesture reminds Louis of her sisters’ first meals. There’s a lovely eagerness there. An impatience stemmed from wanting to devour all, fearlessly. It’s stark against her otherwise impeccable stillness. Louis squints her eyes slightly. It’s highly probable that Harry’s hasn’t even moved her head since she arrived.

There’s a light sound, a throat clearing, and Louis’ eyes jump from where they rested to find Anne’s amused gaze. She must look as puzzled as she feels since Anne answers to her silent question.

“I’m sorry dear, I must not have spoken loud enough. I asked if you’d found anything particularly interesting.”

Louis pauses for a few seconds, trying to single out a few moments out of her day without betraying what could be Niall’s personal business.

“We walked on the cliffs on our way back. I’ve never seen anything like it. The only other ones I’ve seen before were in Dover and I have to say I usually don’t take the time to properly enjoy the view. But we did earlier, and it was worth the few miles added to our walk.” Her gaze slides to Niall, taking note of Harry still slowly eating. A happy expression welcomes her look, so she feels assured enough to continue. “The apothecary was also a very interesting place. I didn’t know so many plants and flowers could be gathered in such a small space.”

Harry’s spoon comes to a halt in her plate with a small grinding noise, her blinking slowing down even more before she looks over to Niall briefly.

“Ah I can never remember the name of the girl who works there,” Anne confides in what sounds like an almost despondent tone. “I really should. She makes the best ointment and medicine I’ve come across. We always stock up when we enter the winter. Better be prepared than sorry!”

Louis acquiesces with a smile, “You’re right. And if it’s any help, her name is Zayn.”

She feels Harry’s eyes on her but keeps herself from looking back. 

The rest of dinner ebbs away, time only marked by the wax slowly melting off candles to gather onto their holders. Harry remains quiet for most of it, only answering bite sized sentences when her mother directly speaks to her. With every word, Louis’s eyes settle on a new detail, her mind carefully filing them away to study later. 

Liam is the one who comes to clear the table right before Anne retires for the evening, Harry following in her steps with a nod but no word. Louis joins Liam and Niall in the kitchen just like the previous evening. But there’s a new fizziness inside her veins that wasn’t there before. A bubbling impatience, an itch filled with possibilities that render her pretty useless when she tries to help the girls with the washing up. They refuse anyway, Liam still hellbent on not letting Louis work with a “You’re a guest, that’s just not done.”

Niall ends up sending her to her room and Louis would feel like a scolded child if a form of relief wasn’t tentatively spreading in her limbs.

She walks up the now familiar stairs right outside the kitchen to the second floor, feet settling against the wood with little noise. But as her hand comes up to rest on her bedroom door’s handle, the door right next to hers open, a sliver of firelight framing a lean silhouette in the dark. Louis’ breath wavers in her lungs, captured like grass dusted with frost.

“I’m sorry,” Harry vows, “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t,” Louis quips back, prompting a delightful raise of Harry’s eyebrow, painted in disbelief. “But you did startle me,” Louis corrects. Harry’s face smoothes out.

“I’m sorry,” she repeats, as if the first time wasn’t enough. “I didn’t mean to startle you either.”

There’s a beat of silence, Louis acutely aware of the low whistle of the wind against the windows. The cold air is biting, the end of November harsh on her skin. But she waits, still. Waits for Harry to say whatever she desired to when she opened her door.

The wait is successful : Harry’s lips twitch, part from each other. 

“My mother said you were coming here not too long before your arrival. She told me you were here…” she trails off, eyes glancing at Louis as if she wants her to fill in the statement. To confirm whatever Anne has told her.

“To keep you company,” Louis says, remembering Anne’s words in her office. The frown that settles on Harry’s face tells her that she’s not happy about the situation.

“Right. To keep me company,” she repeats, tone flat. “I have to say, despite what my mother’s words or… instructions might have been, I’m not a child in need of a playmate.”

Louis can’t help but smile at that, at Harry’s grousing tone. 

“I wasn’t under the impression you were,” she smirks.

“Wasn’t?”

“Am not,” she adds just to be sure. Harry looks like she’s assessing her, steel hidden in the depths of her eyes, cold and hard. There’s still the same twinkle that was there before, right at the edge of her irises. It does nothing to quell Louis’ urge to ruffle Harry’s feathers a bit. But she doesn’t.

Harry’s stance changes, a subtle shift. She’s leaning more against the door, almost relaxed.

“I haven’t properly welcomed you,” she grumbles, something not quite petulant in her voice.

“That’s okay.”

“No. It’s not,” Harry insists.

Louis smiles at that, a brash little thing she can’t stop in time. It earns Harry’s eyes on her mouth, so she doesn’t berate herself too much for it.

“Would you like to walk with me tomorrow?”

It’s Louis’ turn to be tense, but it’s with a slow burning sense of anticipation. “I’d be delighted to,” she assures, letting the words fill the air between them, drawing a tacit promise.

The twinkle sparks stronger in Harry’s eyes, bringing in the briefest hint of smile. The first Louis’ ever seen in what must now be hours of overanalysis. Harry’s hand leaves the door frame it was resting on, following her retreating body in her room.

“I’ll see you tomorrow then, Louis” she murmurs, low.

It settles against Louis’ skin as the door closes with a click.

She opens her own, walks over to her half-hidden station without thinking after lighting a few candles with the burning embers in the fireplace. Her fingers grab her charcoal mechanically, her left hand already turning over a fresh page in her sketchbook.

She pours everything on the page. The way Harry’s mouth twists around the words “book” and “read”. The blurry curves of strands of hair, the ones that nestle against her cheeks. The line of her jaw, broken where ear and chin part ways. The slight valley at the base of her throat where the light comes to die. 

Hours later, when the candle has consumed itself to the bone, she rests.


	2. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Playlist for this chapter](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/59Q9Zm2zmNmrYpeg8nLDIH?si=FMkzjSxkTtWFYYp-GWU3CA)

There’s a whiteness in the sky when she and Harry walk out of the front door. The light hits the moors with a stark line that only winter can bring, brushing against the dark scarf protecting Harry’s head with a soft touch. It’s fine enough that Louis can see the rich tones of her hair bundled underneath, still unsure of their precise colour when bathed in sunlight. Some strands remain free, whipping against Harry’s face in time with the wind. It doesn’t seem to bother her, her face just as calm and quiet as it has been from the moment Louis had walked into the kitchen to be met with her silhouette waiting for her. Even after their arrangement, she’d still been surprised. She glances at Harry from the corner of her eye, assessing whether the curve of the ear she sketched earlier matches with her flesh twin. After so much absence, Harry standing by her side feels distinctively uncanny. As if she’ll disappear into thin air if Louis casts her gaze away even for one second.

She doesn’t want to take the risk.

Harry takes a first step forward, back rigid but not as tightly wounded as she’d been during dinner last night. She takes a few more as Louis remains rooted on the spot, lost in her contemplation, before Harry’s face comes into her line of vision.

“Do you intend to stay here? I thought we were walking,” she inquires, voice as low as ever, a teasing lilt peaking through its depth. Louis takes a deep breath and joins her.

It doesn’t take long before their strides fall into synch, Louis following Harry’s lead as she still hasn’t said a word about where she’s taking them. Actually, she isn’t sure that Harry knows herself: they seem to tread through the high grass and the heather speckled in deep green with no aim. From what Louis remembers, she hasn’t gone in that direction yet, the back of the manor facing her own. Unchartered territory.

Harry clears her throat, her brows furrowed above her downcast eyes.

“You… You said you went into town with Niall,” she says, “Yesterday afternoon.”

“I did,” Louis answers, trying to keep her tone as gentle as possible. She doesn’t know whether to speak as if she’s trying to calm a spooked horse or if Harry is seeking something else entirely. She feels slightly unbalanced despite the steady ground beneath her feet, but it’s not entirely uncomfortable.

“You mentioned the cliffs. I thought I could show you the most… recognizable ones of this place,” Harry explains, eyes briefly looking up to glimpse at Louis’ face. They find a wide smile there, Louis trying to tamp it down to the best of her abilities. Harry averts her gaze almost immediately, but the same quip of lips Louis had witnessed in the blue glow of the night has reappeared. It’s stronger this time, marking Harry’s skin further in, impossibly charming.

“Thank you, I’d love to see them.”

Silence settles back over them, blanketing, as their footsteps crunch against the cold and dry landscape. Louis tries to take everything in, to sense the way the earth has moved differently here than on other parts of the island she has already roamed. The slopes are barely steeper but her calves can feel it still, muscles and limbs fighting wind and gravity.

Harry’s breath isn’t laboured at all. As they keep walking up what looks like a soft but infinite hill, distance builds between them, Harry seemingly keeping her steps slow but not stopping to wait for her either. Louis makes the most of it. She watches the way Harry’s hands clutch her skirts, barely lifting them, mindful about tripping on their length. Her skin is warmer than Louis had assessed in candle and moon light. There’s a lingering heat to it, the faded touch of summer still sleeping in, infused too far to fully exhale before December comes. The dark fabric of her sleeves cut against it in the same way it did last night. It’s heavier than simple cotton, thicker, catching the light and absorbing it for heat in the deep maroon of the dress. From time to time, Harry’s head turns slightly, almost as if she wants to check on Louis, make sure she’s really following her. But she never looks back.

The ground flattens after a while, Louis catching up to Harry as she finally halts. There’s a few meters between them and the edge of the land but the shoreline is right there, stones and rocks creating a line that’s jagged, indented in a way that reminds Louis of a torn bit of lace. The waves crash against it in a show-stopping spectacle of white foam, pearls adorning the imaginary mesh. Some of the water is captured within the stone, making it glisten under the frothy sun.

Louis feels the same unwavering calm that the sight of the sea had caused the previous day growing back in her bones. An appeasement of her body, of its steady thrum. She even forgets Harry for the smallest second. It’s the tentative touch on her shoulder that brings her back to her senses, eyes meeting Harry’s attentive ones.

“It’s right over there, just a bit further along,” she almost whispers, trying to not disturb the song of the waves.

They’re closer now, no distance keeping their skirts from swishing together as they walk alongside. Louis’ eyes remain on the shore, on the new precipices she sees with each twist and turn of their path. 

“There,” Harry calls right before the end of the land.

Right in the middle of the sea, close enough to a slim strip of sand that they feel like watchful guardians, stand giant towers of stone. Knives, really. Cutting panes of rock bitten off by salty winds.

Louis feels herself let out a sound as she basks in the sight. An “oh” filled with awe and humility, a small thing facing the greatness of nature’s sublime doing.

“Les aiguilles de Port Coton,” Harry comments, taking in the view with a fond expression softening her features. There’s familiarity in the way her mouth forms the words and her eyes roam over the spectacle in front of them.

“They do look like needles,” Louis nods.

They stand together for what seems like hours, looking over the sea right into stone. Harry shows her down a craggy path that leads them to the beach, the tall towers even more impressive from their new viewpoint. The beauty does not keep Louis from struggling in the sand, heels digging too deep in the unstable grains and threatening to make her fall. Harry’s hand comes up more than once to steady her, but she does not catch it, refusing to give up so early. Her stay has just begun, and Louis intends to come to the beach more than once. She focuses on her ankles, willing them straight, and walks on while Harry watches her with an amused glint in her irises.

“Do you know how long you’ll stay with us?”

Louis almost scoffs at that, eyes looking down at her feet, still concentrating on them.

“At least for three weeks. Why,” she inquires, coming to a halt to look over at Harry before pushing a bit more, “is my presence already an inconvenience?”

Harry finally looks stunned, mouth opening in surprise and maybe bafflement. It’s certainly more direct than Louis had talked with Anne at supper, but she can’t help but want to stir Harry out of her composure. To poke at the heavy varnish of it until it cracks, letting bursts of life shine through more than they already do here and there.

“You’re not an inconvenience,” Harry claims strongly, “not at all. My mother has shared almost no details of your stay here and I just… I wanted to know a bit more, that’s all.” There’s a break right at the end of her sentence, in her intake of breath. Louis turns away to hide her grin, pushing a bit more against the nerve she just hit. She hears footsteps right behind her. One, two. Barely coming closer.

“I’m not used to having new company around. Or… I’m not used to having unfamiliar company around for an extended period of time. Not anymore. But Louis, I’m not displeased by it,” Harry says softly, words hitting the air carefully. They melt any desire Louis had to take her teasing further. As she turns around, she’s met with the worried line of Harry’s brow, the now murky green of her eyes, as cloudy as the salted water.

“Good,” she smiles, “as you’ll have to bear with me for a least a little while.”

There’s shy relief spreading over Harry’s features, mirroring her own. Spreading in her lungs like the quietness of the shore caressed by the winds. She starts walking back towards the path, Harry now the one to follow her with hesitant steps.

“So, we’ve already established that you weren’t in desperate need of a companion,” Louis starts but Harry cuts her off before she can finish her thought.

“I didn’t say that.”

“Didn’t you?”

“No, I said I wasn’t in need of a playmate,” Harry corrects.

Louis smiles, letting out a drawled “aaaah” of understanding, watching Harry’s pink, pink lips quip up in response.

“I never said I didn’t need a companion. Or that I didn’t want one either.”

Louis openly grins at her, trying to not show her eagerness to accept Harry’s peace offering.

“Wonderful! I’ve been told I’m a good one,” she says.

For the first time, Harry smiles. A full, stretched out mouth kind of smile. One that reveals dimples on either side of her face; marks of thumbs left in soft clay to frame the sun. Louis’ heart lodges in her throat, fingers itching to rest in the two slots that were clearly made for them.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Harry says, stepping forth to lead their way back.

They go their separate ways after stepping into the warmth of the house, parting with gentle goodbyes and the knowledge that they’ll see each other at dinner. 

As soon as Louis is within the safety of her bedroom walls, she quickly strips off the heavy layers burdening her. They suddenly feel too stifling there, inside of her temporary home, when they had been a protection, a haven during their time spent outside. The scent of seaweed has seeped into her scarf, her shawl and probably the coat she left in the mudroom. She can’t help but breathe it in, feeling her lungs expand on a memory of iodine. On the vision of Harry standing tall in the wind, gaze lost and then found, hair fluttering in the wind like wings of seagulls.

Her steps lead her to grab her sketchpad, her fingers to draw a silhouette against the waves. Strong like the tide and timid like the water licking bare toes.

The sky has darkened when she puts it aside to pick up her smaller notebook filled with earlier studies. She observes them critically, noting when she’s curved a line too soon, made an angle too soft, pointed a detail too sharply. Focusing on the small things she’s filed during the walks, she corrects them all, penciling out new ones to fill the next few blank pages. Ears mixed with fingers, tendons and bones tensing the skin.

She’s called to dinner much like the previous day and the meal remains a quiet affair albeit a relaxed one. Anne is still as much of a charming host as she’s always been, talking about the business she attended during the day without ever oversharing. She seems to ease Louis into the life in her home with care, never dismissing her as someone she’s just employed to paint her daughter. Maybe it’s because she cannot act in such a manner in front of Harry. Or maybe she’s really a woman with an amiable nature. Regardless of which it is, Louis is not one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Harry is no chattier than the night before and Louis tries not to feel the pit of disappointment that floats down her belly. She figured that the conversation would be able to flow more easily now that the unspoken tension between them had been sort of broken. But it’s not the case. 

Anne casts looks from time to time, prompting short answers from Harry, but never able to build a proper exchange. Despite this, Harry’s demeanour feels less wary: she’s ever slightly slouched on herself, back not as rigid as Louis has seen so far, her eyes crinkling and mouth tilting upwards more than before. It mostly happens when Louis speaks. She tries not to read into it.

When she retires, she goes into the kitchen as always but only briefly this time, wishing a good night to Liam and Niall after making sure their day had been pleasant. She feels like a child, rushing back to her bedroom in hurried steps, careful not to make any sound in the corridor. It seems like it’s no use: no light shines in the sliver of space under Harry’s door and muffled sounds from the lower floor indicate that she’s somewhere downstairs. Probably speaking with Niall or Liam.

It gives Louis a greater sense of safety as she sneaks into her own room, door quietly clicking shut behind her. She takes her time to grab her painting coat, sliding the coarse cotton over her skin before tying up the belt. The entire thing is dotted with oils and pigments stains, the majority too old to be scrubbed off anymore. She settles her easel after lightning the fire back up, taking the time to get a few candles ready, needing them to better see her work in the darkness.

The first strokes are never easy. Louis’ father often said that they decide on a painting’s future. A masterpiece or a daub, defined and contrasted with a few swipes of her brush. She’s never taken to the idea. As she shapes the slender frame of Harry’s shoulder, the arc of her neck, the round of her hand and the cut of her jaw, she nods. Lips pinched in a rebellious smile as always when faced with her father’s view. Every painting is like their model. As changeable and surprising as the reality they try to freeze in time. They breathe. As Louis’ mind goes back to the charming dimples she’s discovered earlier, her fingertip twitches, adding a line amidst the white.

She knows this one will be great.

Louis did not expect Harry to be waiting for her in the kitchen the next morning. Yet, here she is again, looking every bit like chatting with Niall and Liam as they prepare some food is where she belongs. Louis almost feels like an intruder when she stumbles down the stairs, but Liam’s beam and Niall’s jovial greeting quell any uncertainty she has. Harry quietens at her arrival, spine straightening slightly in an attempt to, maybe, rebuild her composure. But there’s no coldness in the smile she sends Louis’ way. Only shyness.

“Good morning Liam, Niall,” Louis croaks, voice crackling with sleep. She goes to sit facing Harry, waiting for their eyes to meet over the jug. Only then she adds, as gently as she can, “good morning Harry.”

One of her dimples makes an appearance, small but deep, Harry’s eyes somehow more saturated in the morning light. Green, placid, joyful.

“Hi Louis,” Harry answers before taking a sip from the glass set in front of her. Louis decides to not be too forward this early, careful not to test any limits when she’s not fully awake and unable to think of the consequences of her actions.

Niall and Liam keep chattering, unaware or unwilling to acknowledge the small bubble of silence that has settled on the table. But, if Louis is honest with herself, she doesn’t mind it. The lull of voices dancing together is familiar, a sweet echo of home hundred of miles from it. The comfortable island of peace is less so. Louis only knows of tense silence, the one fostered by quiet resentment. The one she nurtures, the ones her dad does. The aggravated sighs piled with sliced bread and jam.

When she glances at Harry, there’s nothing that can even evoke those feelings. Only gentle looks sweeping over the two maids, the tiniest twitches of her mouth. There’s a new kind of silence there.

They end up all sharing a form of late breakfast, not quite lunch, upon Harry’s insistence. Oddly enough, Liam's early reticence doesn’t seem to stem from Harry’s presence but from Louis’. Louis’ waves her worries away, going as far as pretending to stand up to gather Liam a plate and glass under Niall’s laughter. When she glances over at Harry, she’s grinning openly. Louis looks away.

They’re gathering empty dishes when Harry speaks, voice even slower now then when they had all entertained a bit of small talk as they ate.

“Louis,” she lets out, effectively stopping her on her way to the stairs.

“Yes, Harry,” she replies, hand flush against the wall, turning her body back to Harry to give her all of her consideration. Harry’s eyes go to it, to her fingers grazing the stone, before zipping quickly to Liam and Niall standing to the side. They’re already cleaning everything they used, but their movements are more cautious than usual. They’re trying to listen in, Louis realises, and amused breath leaving her mouth. The noise gains Harry’s attention again.

“I was hoping you’d like - would you be willing to walk with me again today?”

Eyes slightly widened, Louis nods with what she hopes is contained enthusiasm.

“I just need to change, I’ll be with you shortly,” she hurries out, already rushing in the stairs to her room, barely hearing Harry’s happy answer.

“I’ll wait as long as needed!”

The wind is more merciful when they walk across the moors, but the air is more humid, clinging to their overcoats in an instantly freezing dew. 

Harry is leading them somewhere else, their path different than the previous day even though the landscape is eerily similar. But Louis feels herself getting used to it: the boundless fields of grass and wildflowers, the slow slopes and flattened hills. All leading to craggy cliffs and tumultuous seas.

Harry’s gait is not as wide today, pace not as fast. It doesn’t feel as if she’s trying to run away this time. Louis would even go as far as thinking she might be enjoying that moment. A natural prolongation of their breakfast spent just being there, side by side. Together.

There is a small track, rocky and gravelly under the sole of Louis’s shoe, that makes her steps unsteady. Hands extended on the side, she walks gingerly forward under Harry’s watchful gaze. 

“Tell me if you need any help,” is what breaks the comfortable silence. 

“I will,” Louis smiles, eyes still focused on her steps, “thank you."

“I promise the trip is not as dangerous as it looks,” Harry says, voice suddenly closer than Louis expected. She notices then that Harry stepped by her side, hand ready to catch her if she trips, true to her words.

She peers at Harry through her eyelashes, more assured now.

“I don’t mind a bit of danger” Louis asserts before adding when faced with Harry’s smirk “and you’ve proven yourself to be a trustworthy guide yesterday.”

Harry looks awfully pleased with herself at that, chin held up and eyes squinted with what feels like mock smugness. Louis, however, isn’t entirely sure it’s fake.

“Well, I’ll try to keep any disappointment at bay. I need to keep up with your expectations now.” 

“Oh, I’m sure you will,” Louis grins, stepping forwards on the path with confidence despite not knowing where they’re headed. She thinks she hears Harry giggles, but there’s only a perfectly curated blankness on her face when she turns to check. 

She lets her lead the way, back to walking alongside now. It proves to be difficult on the narrow strip of beaten earth, but they make do.

“Would it be alright for me to ask you questions?” Harry suddenly inquires, voice low and steady. As if she’d been repeating the sentence in her head for a while.

“Of course,” Louis hums, happy to oblige. Eager to ask some of her own, too, but she doesn’t reveal that. Harry nods, acknowledging her answer but mulling it over. After a while, she speaks again.

“I actually don’t know what to start with.”

Louis lets out a bark of laughter she can’t stifle soon enough, hands coming to press it tight against her lips. The sound is jarring and loud, a wild thing right at home in the open landscape spread out in front of them. Harry’s face seems split between gleeful eyes and a pouty mouth. However, the eyes win, and she’s joining Louis; no hiding her chuckles now.

“It’s true,” she protests, fingers tucking a runaway strand behind her right ear. “I’m trying to pick something good to start with but I can’t decide!”

“What about this: I’ll tell you a few things, the easy ones, and then you can ask whatever you want to know that I haven’t covered yet.”

Harry considers the idea as she contemplates the horizon, hands coming to her hair but this time combing through it. Her fingers come to rest against her easy plaited bun. It’s the kind Lottie does when she’s too lazy to untie her night braid and the thought makes Louis’ lungs expand slowly, filling them in with affection. Her gaze comes to rest on Harry’s fingers, the grooves of her bones dressed in shadows, shifting with each twitch of her joints. In her head, she’s already mixing colours, tucking them with tiny strokes between lines of ivory. She files the exact shade of her skin away to peruse later.

“Alright.”

A few minutes trickle by as Louis gathers her thoughts. Harry was right. This is hard. She wants to make a good impression. But there’s a lot to hide or gloss over, and some things she feels are not things you say when you first talk about yourself. 

She needs to find a good balance, but Louis has never been one for moderation.

“My name is Louis. I live in Paris with my four younger sisters and father. Most of my time is spent taking care of them.” She pauses, breathes, starts again.

“I like reading, a lot. Sometimes I even think I could write some words of mine but I think my hands might be better at doing something else.” 

There’s a weight against her cheek, right where Harry is staring at her. She wonders what she sees. Does she see the corners Louis is desperately trying to keep hidden by shining light elsewhere?

“I tend to think I’m funny,” she smirks, a little bit self-deprecating, “although that’s mainly because I can make my sisters laugh.” She glances over at Harry, adding “I’m not sure my audience here has the same standards, so you’ll have to review that statement with one of your own.” Harry barely nods, a serious air surrounding her.

Louis keeps quiet for a moment, thinking.

“I’m not sure what I should add here,” she says.

The crunch of their feet against the gravel stops, Harry’s body coming up to hide what’s in front of them. Amidst her attempt at portraying herself, Louis had almost forgotten that they were here because Harry wanted to show her something new.

“We’re here,” she announces as if Louis hadn’t already figured. But it’s almost endearing, reassuring. The acknowledgement that their journey has come to fruition. 

Harry steps aside, revealing a beach, ivory sand stretching from one end to the other in one smooth line. It curves into a little cove, protected by an arch cut into stone. It’s as if the cliff had tried to step over the sea and, failing halfway, let her foot dip into it. Delightfully resigned.

Somehow, peering into the immobile rocks, Louis finds something. A playfulness. A life. Something she’s only seen in people, in the giggle of her sisters running around the house after making a mess out of the kitchen. She’s never seen more beautiful views in her life.

The path to the beach is not as steep as the previous day. It’s a gentle slope, rolling pebbles the only element slowing down their descent. But they make it to the beach safely in a few minutes.

The surf is lighter today, waves lapping the shore peacefully, soaked up by the sand. Louis feels the urge to bury her toes in it, to feel the grains rubbing her skin. She doesn’t hesitate long before stepping forward, closer to the water. Taking her shoes off is a bit of a struggle and she almost topples over, only managing to maintain balance by using her arm as a counterweight. Her skirts are in the way as she twists her leg to the side, trying to untie her left shoe with one hand. She gives up, dropping straight down on the sand, finding a lot more purchase taking them off sitting down.

“What are you d-” Harry starts, voice a bit further, only audible through the absence of breeze. She stops, surely realising what Louis is intending to do. Or at least Louis hopes so. It probably looks very self-explanatory.

She lets out a brief sound of victory when her feet meet the sand, startled not only by the cold but also by the moisture that’s seeping deep within the beach, its ground. It’s as if the sea continues on far beyond where the eye can see, hidden right beneath them inside the earth itself. The thought pleases Louis endlessly.

She starts walking, not realising she’s being followed until the voice starts speaking closer than it used to be.

“You’re gonna catch your death. Wasn’t last time enough?”

Louis hesitates, rolling sentences in her mouth as her toes hit the freezing foam dying on the sand. She shrugs, her morning resolution to restrain herself vanished.

“Well, if I fall ill I’m sure you can tend to me again.”

Harry doesn’t answer. Louis can feel a grimace twisting her face, a sigh leaving her throat. She lets it linger : she’s facing the horizon; Harry can’t see. She steps further, lifting her skirts to keep them from getting soaked. Her feet are already getting numb, small chilling waves breaking against her ankles.

Louis startles when she hears splashes behind her, breaking the stillness in infinitesimal shards. Harry is by her side in two or three strides, as swift as can be, hands bunching up all the layers of her dress. This time, they don’t look at each other at all, choosing to stare at the horizon together instead.

Everything settles down. Tranquil, subdued. At ease.

An intake of breath sneaks its way in without disturbing anything.

“May I ask my questions now?”

Louis can’t help but grin.

“You may.”

“What are your sisters’ names?”

That one is easy. 

“Charlotte, Félicité, Phoebe and Daisy.”

Harry hums, letting seconds tickle by before speaking up again.

“How old are they?” 

“Fifteen, thirteen and the twins are nine years old.”

Somehow, that last detail seems to spark Harry’s curiosity.

“Twins,” she repeats with wonder in her voice. “That sounds like a handful.”

“They are,” Louis confirms, but her lips are already stretched in a large smile, “but they’re also absolutely wonderful. Love them to bits.”

“You must have a lot on your plate then, taking care of them.” 

Louis snorts, a twisted sort of sound that feels too gritty to be birthed from humour.

“I definitely would love a second pair of hands. Though I’m not being fair, Charlotte is doing plenty to help.”

Harry seems to consider that answer.

“Your father doesn’t.” It’s not a question, yet Louis nods. It feels odd to have such a simple statement cover so many elements that Louis has come to define as inevitable difficulties of her life. 

“It is what it is,” is what she answers.

Harry falls quiet, but Louis can see the cogs turning in her brain. Now that she has more experience being in Harry’s presence, Louis realises her silence is mostly external. Her thoughts are very loud, betraying themselves in the thundering depths of her eyes, in the line that creases her brow, in the downturn of her mouth.

“Ask what you want to ask,” Louis coaxes, feeling that Harry is still unsure of what the limits are. In that regard, at least, they’re both on equal footing.

“Your mother,” Harry trails off and somehow those two words are enough of a question. Louis expected it, maybe even hoped for it. Just like she’d talked about it with Niall, she feels alright about telling Harry. There’s no more pain there to hurt herself with anymore.

“She died giving birth to the twins.”

Harry’s frown deepens but, despite what Louis expected, she doesn’t offer her condolences like others have. Instead, she looks down, lifting her skirts a bit higher to peer at her feet.

“It must have been hard.”

“It was, I won’t lie. I was still young and there were already two little ones. My nan helped, but she was already old. We managed, though. If that’s any reassurance, they all turned out fine,” Louis grins.

Harry smiles easily, “I don’t doubt that for a second.”

There’s another lull in conversation, Louis using it to step back to the shore. She rubs her feet together as best as she can, sand sticking to the damp skin, making the ordeal more painful than warming. Harry follows suit but decides to wipe the water away with the inside of her skirt. As her dry feet come into view, Louis catches herself studying them. The curve of a toe, the second one slightly longer than the others. Long bones painted in whites and purples, testifying of the freezing waters they soaked in. She quickly looks away. There’s no room for those in her painting, no reason to watch them as carefully as she’s doing. Still, she can’t help but think that she had not thought feet were cute since her sisters had grown taller. Even then, they’d never been beautiful before.

They begin to slowly walk along the line where the sea meets the sand, blood pumping warmth back into their feet as they walk.

“What does your father do?”

Louis gulps. She’s never been one to lie, however telling the truth would be tittering very close to her own. Still, she answers.

“He’s a painter.”

Harry pauses at that. It's short, so short Louis would have missed it had she blinked. But she hears the falter in Harry's step. Barely there but still unmistakable.

"He is?" She seems surprised, taken off guard in a way that feels meaningful but Louis can't pinpoint why. So, instead of trying to pry that train of thoughts open too soon, she keeps baring herself to Harry.

"Hmm hmm. Pretty good too. Keeps us well fed, dressed and with a sound roof over our heads."

There's silence again, but Harry recovers quicker.

"Has he ever taught you?"

At that Louis laughs out loud, her cackle cracking the air open, taking Harry aback.

"He’s tried," Louis chuckles, "but I think he got tired really quickly."

"Why?" Harry asks, eyes curious as she walks slightly closer to Louis now, her previous distance long forgotten.

"According to him, I'm not very good, " she says, downplaying all the remarks she's heard over the years. She figured out long ago that despite his early desire to share the art of painting with her, her father would always be unyielding in his views, whether they concerned her work as a painter or her place as a woman. Louis entertaining a career of her own was never what he'd planned when he gave her her first brush. Having her works standing alongside his even less so.

Harry's voice finds its way to her.

"And according to you?"

Louis tries to dampen the smugness she feels creeping on her face. Shrugs it off awkwardly.

"I'd say some of my work isn't too shabby."

Harry's gaze thickens, heavy like molasses. Sticking to her.

"I think I'd like to see some of it."

Louis hums, thinking of all the sketches in her room. Pages filled with gentle hands and swaying curls, shadowed throats and green eyes.

"I'm afraid not too shabby doesn't mean good enough yet," she smiles, eyes tight, trying to convey without being too blunt that she intends to do the exact opposite of what Harry wants. Everything will be kept from her eyes. Louis just won’t lie about it, and that seems like a good enough compromise. When she turns around, she can hear Harry's quiet words, spoken under her breath in a sigh.

"Alright, then."

The soft crunch of her heel on the sand feels loud, sounds like walking away. She’s not though, on the contrary, she’s stepping forward once more, steady as ever. They’re closing in on the end of the cove but Harry isn’t slowing down, Louis as stumped as ever about what she’s doing. What she’s thinking.

As if she’s heard Louis’ thoughts, Harry’s head turns to the side, just enough to look back at Louis with a smile showing a hint of pearly teeth, barely peeking from the pink and chapped curtains of her lips.

“Come on, there’s still something to explore here.”

Louis tags along happily, relieved that her rebuffal hasn’t soured Harry’s mood. They’re heading for the rocks lining the beach, as big as boulders. Louis lets her hand run along them, the spray easing the glide, highlighting the areas round with erosion and the ones sharpened by time. Harry’s hand rests on the cliff too but it’s more inquisitive, acting like a guide.

“Here,” she says before sinking into the shadows, away from view. Louis joins her.

There’s a small cave, a nook hidden within the rocks where sand turns into pebbles, carved into the stone. It feels less rugged there, as if carefully smoothed by some unnatural force, from the walls to the floor. It’s big enough to fit five people comfortably, to shelter them from the elements although Louis doubts it would protect them from the sea if a storm was to happen. But on a day like this, it only feels safe and welcoming. A haven with a view.

Harry isn’t sitting down. Her fingers are still mapping the space, looking for something on the lining of the cave. When she stops, Louis knows she’s found it.

“I used to come here when I was younger,” Harry says, voice sounding distant, lost someplace or some time far away. “We did.”

Louis joins her, feet grounded on the settling pebbles.

“We?”

“Gemma and I,” Harry responds. She’s not as far as Louis thought, staring straight at the mark she’s thumbing over repeatedly. An awkward H, and a G more assured. Both scraped into the cliff with the carelessness only children and people in love possess.

“How long has it been?” Louis asks. She doesn’t know what she’s asking. How long since Harry’s been there. How long since Gemma’s left her. How long since Harry has carved herself into something tangible for the joy of it. How long since she’s let herself mark anything at all. Claimed something as her own.

“Months. Years,” is the answer.

The lapping of the waves is the only sound for a while. Louis feels questions building inside of her, but much like Harry moments before, she doesn’t know if she’s allowed to ask. Harry’s face seems colder than before. A coldness that’s not on her skin but buried inside, making patience thinner and emotions run high. She takes the risk.

“You’ve never wanted to come back here? With Niall or Liam? Someone else?”

Harry sniffs, an emptied form of scorn veiling her eyes and turning her lip. 

“I won’t disturb Niall or Liam more than I already do just for my own amusement,” she drawls placidly, if not a bit distant. There’s a snort then, ugly, dripping with sarcasm before she’s even said a word more. 

“You’d think after living here my whole life I’d have more people I could go to for company.”

Sadness overcomes Louis, big tidal waves of blue washing over her heart and her guts, drowning everything.

“Surely you know people,” she says, hearing the pitiful despair in her tone.

“I’ve met people,” Harry counters, composure back once more. She’s still not looking at Louis, gaze flitting from stone to water. “Some of them several times. But I’m sure you know that there’s more to friendship than a few convenient play dates and arranged meetings.” 

Thoughts going back to the company she keeps in Paris, Louis is met with the stark realisation that she doesn’t, in fact, know, or at least not really. She has gaggles of people she spends time with when she’s not at home or in the studio. Men and women she’s seen over and over at small parties and dancing halls, enough times that greeting each other felt like the natural thing to do. Lunches following suit, invitations into small apartments to talk about changing the world without ever spilling intimate secrets. Kiss and don’t tell.

In the end, the ones that know her the most remain her sisters. She hums her understanding.

“What about coming here alone?”

Harry doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, she unravels her woolen stockings stuck in a ball inside her shoes. She sits, back to Louis, hiding away the sight of her putting them back on. Louis doesn’t know if the gesture stems from modesty or a desire to carefully place her mask back on before facing the world again. Soon, she stands up, not wasting time before leading the way out of the cave. Right before emerging fully, she speaks.

“Even alone gets old.”

After dinner, Louis joins Liam and Niall in the kitchen. Even if it’s only been days, a week at most, it feels like she’s always done it. The warmth of the fire burning settles her nicely, a blanket against tired bones. This time she’s traded the usual small glass of _eau-de-vie_ for some herbal tea. She’s planning on making some progress on the portrait later and it would be unfortunate for her hands to be unsteady. Liam has joined her, always tilting to the more reasonable side when it has the great merit of existing, but Niall has no such qualms. She’s sipping her alcohol with the calm enthusiasm that comes at the end of a busy day. 

“I’ve been helping the Lady with the books,” she recalls when Louis asks about her afternoon. “My cousin is the one who helps, really, as he’s the closest thing there is to a groundskeeper. But, you surely noticed, the house doesn’t really have… well… grounds.” Niall chuckles, warm and easy, earning a slightly reluctant smile from Liam.

“To be fair,” Louis says, “I’ve never paid it any attention. It’s not as if I’m used to any expanses of greenery in Paris.”

Niall clucks her tongue at that, “And what a shame.”

Liam’s agreeing nod is earnest despite a slightly sorry look.

“Eh, you can’t miss what you don’t know,” Louis quips back, an unbothered shrug accompanying her words.

“You’re not wrong there,” Liam agrees, measured as always, no malice. Opposite her, Niall eyes glint with mischief.

“I’m happy I won’t be there to see it.”

“See what?”

“The moment you realise you miss it. The greenery. Once you’re back in your cluttered, grey Paris.”

Louis pauses, retort ready against her teeth. She lets her shoulder fall back, unaware that she'd raised them amidst the discussion, hit with the sudden awareness of what she’ll go back to once this place is behind her, of what she’ll have to leave and let go of. Somehow, it’s something that had stayed completely out of her mind until now.

“Now look what you’ve done,” Liam tuts while adressing Niall.

“It’s okay,” Louis says, recognising it's her who’s spoken only once a few seconds have passed.

Harry chooses this moment to enter the room, three heads turning to welcome her in.

“Miss,” Niall smiles, any trace of her teasing cleared from her face. “How can we help?”

Harry doesn’t seem fully at ease, hands folded in front of her in the obedient way small children do when they’re unsure of something. When they seek comfort after a bad dream. When they want to play and don’t know how to ask you.

Whatever Harry wants, she doesn’t seem to know how to ask either. She just stands there, body minutely swaying back and forth on the spot. A soothing momentum.

“Would you want to join us, maybe,” Liam offers and at Harry’s nod she’s standing up, already fetching another cup to pour some tea in without any prompting.

Harry thanks her as soon as the cup is in front of her, full with steaming liquid within seconds.

“Have… Have you got any plans for tomorrow?” she asks the group. Louis feels like, somehow, the question isn’t for her. In any case, she’ll let the others speak up first.

“Well, I think I have to do a bit of mending,” Liam says seemingly lost in thought, trying to recall what task must be done. “A bit of laundry would be nice too, the drying is only gonna get more difficult as we go so any big batches should be taken care of now, really.” 

Niall hums and nods, glass lifted to her mouth before meeting the table again. 

“You’re right. I’ll need to get some soap next time I go to town,” she sighs, eyes closing, the task already feeling like too much of a burden in her relaxed state. She opens them again, though, slightly squinting when she looks over at Louis.

“Actually, you’ll need to come with me, Louis.”

Liam is already beginning to protest when Louis cuts in plainly. “Sure, I don’t mind.”

Oddly, Harry joins in, seemingly taking Liam’s side.

“Does she need to?”

Louis’ gaze finds Harry’s, already steady on her. 

“Well, it’s not me really. Zayn asked, though.”

At that, Harry looks away, brow raised in Niall’s direction. However, it’s not her who speaks.

“Did she?” 

Liam’s expression is not as incredulous as Harry’s, but it’s still there. Tucked in the small furrow of her forehead, the lines at the top of her nose, moving her face in a way Louis has never seen before. She’s suddenly reminded of Zayn’s inquiries, teasing giggles threatening to fizz out from her chest.

“She did,” Niall assures again. She rests her hand against her palm, glass firmly nestled against the other. If the flames of the fire danced millimeters away from where they stand, Louis would even say she looks calculating.

“You’re right, I remember now,” she acknowledges. Maybe it’ll help soothe the hackles she can almost feel rising on Liam’s shoulders. It only earns Harry's attention again. Without really knowing why, she adds “I probably asked so many questions when I saw the place she wanted to entertain me if I had more.”

She doesn’t want to look over at Niall. Louis knows she probably remembers their visit very well, knows that Louis had mostly kept to herself. But it’s not as if she’s at the liberty to say that Zayn really was the one who’d been curious, and especially not why. She’ll leave to Niall the mission of pulling Liam into confidence.

“You didn’t say you were interested in medicine,” Harry says, sounding every bit like she’s making a reproach. Louis fights her urge to find it endearing.

“Well,” she says as she stands up, picking up her cup to put it in the sink, “I’m interested in many things. Most things really,” she placates to the best of her abilities.

Harry looks like she wants to cross her arms but she doesn’t, looking away but not arguing back. Louis considers it a small victory.

“I’m going to retire for bed. I bid you goodnight ladies,” she announces before bowing halfway, leaving chuckling and deep, low whispers behind her as she departs and disappears upstairs.

She’s painted large stretches of maroon, shading them well enough to hint at folded satin when there’s a knock on her door. She feels like she’s being kicked awake, drenched with a bucket of cold water, hands rushing to take off her painting coat, to place as silently as she can her brushes and palette on the side table. 

“Just one second,” she calls out, instinct somehow already knowing who’s waiting on the other side of her bedroom door.

“Alright,” is the quiet response. Louis is stretching the panes of her screen, cursing its creaking hinges, trying to tuck behind it anything that’s sticking out. The torn off page of her sketchbook makes its way there, hiding dozens of right hands drawn in brown tones. After a quick survey of the room, she breathes out, pauses right before opening the door. There’s paint on her left hand.

She quickly rubs it off in the underside of her dark skirts, satisfied once it comes clean. Then, she opens the door, leaves it ajar. Harry’s face fills the space, the light of the moon dressing her in blues, jarring against the warm tones coming from the hearth.

“Hi,” is Harry’s small greeting. She seems to have mellowed out since earlier, no trace of her aggravation left. 

“Hi Harry,” she responds, taken aback but not enough to forget to be polite. “May I help you?”

Harry shakes her head, but not without a small, timid smile.

“I’m sorry to have bothered you, I didn’t even think you might be asleep.”

Louis is quick to reassure her, not wanting to lead Harry to part with her earlier than she intended.

“I wasn’t, there’s absolutely no harm done.”

“I just wanted to say goodnight,” Harry starts, a new tranquillity settling her twitching body, “I didn’t get a chance to bid you goodnight when you did.” 

Louis’ heart swells quietly, a grin unmistakably spreading on her face. She doesn’t try to quell it down.

“That’s very nice of you,” she says instead. Harry is quick to speak again.

“I also wanted to say thank you.” 

This time, Louis feels her head tilt, slightly taken aback.

“What would you ever need to thank me for?” she asks, genuinely wondering what she’s done to earn such a sentiment.

Harry shrugs, a small leisurely thing that takes its time in giving no definitive answer.

“I don’t know. Accompanying me. Telling me about you.”

“Oh, that’s nothing,” Louis tries to deflect. She doesn’t like Harry feeling that any of this deserves any kind of praise or thanks. Conversation should never feel like a privilege.

“For answering my questions then. For listening to me.”

Louis shakes her head, her hands coming dangerously close to reaching out and clutching Harry’s.

“No, you really don’t have to thank me for any of it. It was and remains my pleasure.”

Harry lowers her head at that, blue tinged with purple on her cheeks. Blooming on her ears too. Louis takes it all in greedily. Harry nods, once, gaze still anchored on her feet who remain as dauntingly pretty in the night as they were in the daylight.

“Right. I’ll see you tomorrow, then. Goodnight Louis.”

When she turns to her door, Louis catches a glimpse of her flushed neck, blush spreading in delightful blotches. As she closes her door to rest against it, she cannot help but wonder how far down they go.

December starts with a light drizzle, sparse enough that Louis thinks a walk would be alright at first. But Niall is quick to dissuade her when she comes down for breakfast.

“Oh no, no, no, I’m not having you, or Harry, or anyone get out and catch death right now. This might not look like much but we’re in Brittany here. _Quand il pleut, il pleut et il continue de pleuvoir_! That means even a drizzle will seep into your thickest clothes and chill you to death. Especially with these temperatures, so no going out, ” she rants, waving the wooden spoon she stirred the stew with to punctuate her words. Louis just nods once, fully chastised.

“Understood, Ma’am,” she can’t help but tease back, earning herself a mocking glare in return. 

She doesn’t see Harry around despite, for once, roaming about the house looking for her. She can hear Anne in her office, finds Liam in the linen room, but Harry is not where Louis can and is allowed to find her. Slightly dejected but too antsy to paint yet, she decides to visit the abandoned room again. She passes by the maids’ rooms quickly, trying to keep her feet as light as she can on the creaky floorboards. The doorknob is a bit flimsy, mechanism loosened from what must have been years of use. She wonders about who came here often enough to manage that feat, but the empty, dusty room offers no answers. The light is as bountiful as she remembers but bleak, greyed out by the clouds hovering above the manor and probably the whole island. Maybe she’s wrong. She hasn’t seen a quarter of Belle-Île if Liam’s to be believed, and Louis does tend to do so.

The windows are stained from the outside, dirt brought on by years of rain and salty winds, traces of dried drops and rivulets of tacky water stuck in layers on the panes. She runs her finger along them, a thin layer of dust gathering at its very tip, powdery soft. She traces shapes into it, the shadow of a memory floating beside her. Her mom, twig in hand, drawing small suns in the ashes of the fireplace. No charcoal or brush. Just a stick and Louis’ little fingers, adding flowers, seven year old hands clumsy but earnest. They were just as grey as today, ashes to dust.

The room hasn’t been disturbed since she came. The sheets haven’t moved, nor have the things they hide. They’re still piled up in what looks like random spots, but some forms are discernable. 

A big chair-looking draped shape is nestled in one corner, right against an imposing dressing cabinet. Louis turns her attention to the latter, closest to her. Its wood is a deep colour, deeper than any other furniture in the house, clearly not well matched. Her palm meets its grain, its weight, its heaviness. Feel the contour of the straight edges of the sculpted decorations. A framing made of fake columns, firmly attached to the paneling, and a triangular pediment to top it off. The whole thing looks awfully stern, not to Louis’ liking at all. Clearly, her hosts agreed.

A tiny key rests in the lock, begging to be turned. So she does.

There are men’s clothes. Heavy coats with épaulettes and golden buttons, marked with a symbol Louis does not recognize. There are a few shirts too, collar still starched and stiff when she touches them, very similar to the ones her dad wears when meeting his benefactors. Things are folded in the small encased shelves, probably trousers from the strip of satin running along their sides. Sated, she closes the cabinet soundlessly, lock clicking shut.

She steps to the right, takes the white sheet off what reveals itself to be a beautiful armchair, white wood curved into a rounded back and two armrests. The padding has yellowed a bit: a thick white and blue _toile de jouy_ with botanicals and scenes of farmlife. Louis’ eyes sweep over the small illustrations, smile wide on her mouth as she traces them all. This one is very much to her liking.

She ends up going back to her room to fetch one of the books she’s carefully packed amidst her clothes and spends hours tucked away in the armchair. In the middle of the dust and tokens of the past, she lets herself be forgotten for a little while.

She doesn’t wait to be called for dinner to leave her hiding spot. Night has fallen swiftly, fully settled before five now, and she didn’t think to grab a candle earlier on. There’s no sound coming from Liam or Niall’s rooms when she passes them on her way back, none either from Harry’s when she goes to put her book back in her room. After being on her own for so long for the first time since her arrival - illness notwithstanding - there’s a sense of oddness lingering in her body. The house is as welcoming as ever, Louis warming up to it and it to Louis the longer she resides there, but the familiar presences she’s now completely associated with the place are missing. Louis knows they can’t be further than a level or two below her, but still, she’ll be as happy to join them again that she was getting some much needed alone time. None of the ladies though, alone or all together, can compare with how draining living with four younger sisters can be, and an entire afternoon alone has fully replenished her energy.

She finds her room warm when she slips in, new logs stacked up high by the fireplace and she silently blesses Niall and Liam for thinking about it while she’d paid it no mind. Picking up a spill from the small vase on the mantle of the fireplace, she lights a few candles, picking one up. Skirting around the bed, she takes a look behind the wooden screen, careful not to skew its balance as she moves. The painting dances in the dimness and the flicker of the flames, maroon dress ignited, deep red gleaming, folding in the crease of the right elbow and the dip of the waist. The features are barely there, sketched hastily in the oval of her face, only cut by the angle of her jaw. The hair sways with each breath Louis takes, tied up in the same fashion it had been when Louis had set eyes on her at dinner. Back straight, chin levelled if a bit high. Proud. 

Gently setting her candle on the desk, Louis makes her way back to the model who inspired her.

They both arrive in the dining room at the same time albeit from opposite sides. Harry’s dress today is a dark grey, close to charcoal, pinstriped with a colour two tones lighter. Staring at the material, Louis realises she’s never seen Harry in bright clothing. She stops, eyes and body completely pausing for a second. She doesn’t know how she’s been dressing herself for the past weeks. The thought makes her tummy squirm almost unpleasantly and she tries to calm herself down, not wanting to flush for no reason.

Harry hasn’t moved from her spot either. However, there’s no pink greeting Louis’s gaze this time, only milky white punctuated with brown. Then, glassy lakes.

“Hello Louis,” she says smoothly. It’s as if she’s waited all day to say it.

“Hi,” Louis breathes out, right hand clutched on top of the left. She feels her thumb stroking her wrist yet cannot command it to stop.Niall comes up behind Louis from the staircase, sidestepping her way to the tables, arms full with plates and cutlery.

“Thank you for staying inside,” she addresses Louis. Or maybe Harry. Louis doesn’t know, she’s not really looking at Niall.

“No problem,” she still replies since it’s the polite thing to do. She also doesn’t want to witness what Niall not getting an answer would entail.

“You planned to go outside,” Harry asks, removing herself from Niall’s way as she puts her burden down and lays it neatly on the table. She does it with the ease that comes with years of practice, knives and forks and spoons sitting right straight away.

“I thought it might be nice,” Louis lets out, finding herself focused her gaze away from Harry’s scrutinising one.

“Wanted to visit town again, maybe?” Harry insists and Louis turns her head back to her this time.

“I was leaning more towards discovering parts I haven’t seen yet, actually. I’m told there is another village further north and a few hamlets too. I’d love to visit those, if the weather ever allows it.” Louis wonders if this sounds like a justification or more like a request. There’s no telling what she wants it to be, no telling what Harry thinks it is either. 

She simply nods, a small, curt thing that would feel colder if it weren’t for a twitch in her upper lip. 

“I’m sure it will,” she says, and that’s enough.

Anne walks in seconds later, heels resonating before she appears in one of the doorways from the living room.

“Good evening everyone,” she greets with a joyful lilt. Her happy mood is written very clearly on her face, her tone, and in the way her hand grazes Harry’s shoulders as she walks by. From the corner of her eye, Louis sees Harry stiffen slightly at the touch.

Anne sits down, taking her napkin and unfolding it over her lap. The gesture may have been a loud bell for all it was : Liam appears almost out of thin air with a large dish filled with the stew Niall had been preparing earlier. 

Louis and Harry take their usual seats : Louis at the end, facing Anne, and Harry on the side between them both. Her back is entirely draped in yellows and rich oranges from the flames burning in the hearth behind her. Louis wonders whether the heat feels stifling or comforting to her. If it can unwind the tension that’s drawn her shoulders tight.

Liam serves them in silence, Anne’s spirits impervious to the slow seeping tension Louis feels rolling out of Harry in timid yet steady waves. It’s not the shyness from the previous day, wondering whether or not she’ll be okay joining Niall, Liam and Louis in their discussion. It’s a leak, control slowly slipping out of an iron grasp over oneself. The smaller the crack, the higher the pressure, threatening to flood everything near.

They eat in silence, air only filled by the crackle of the burning logs and the metallic click of spoons against china. There’s a grittiness to this quiet, one that makes Louis want to grind her teeth, clench them as hard as she can to relieve the tension that’s making a space for itself in her jaw. Anne’s interruption stops her from bearing down.

“I’ve had a lovely day today. Received a few letters for future arrangements that are going swimmingly so far, put me in the best kind of mood,” she declares, her usual composure more youthful as she speaks. “I’ve even received one from Gemma. Harry, you got one as well haven’t you?”

Harry’s spoon grates loudly against her plate like nails against glass. Louis winces, unsure if the dam is about to break or already has. Harry answers shortly, voice even.

“I have.”

“She seems to be doing fine,” Anne rejoices, not aware of her daughter’s now visible strain or unwilling to acknowledge it. She turns to Louis, apparently deeming whatever news she got worth sharing with her. “She seems to really like Rennes but her husband might need to have them settle closer to Paris and Versailles for a while. Apparently it’s needed for business,” she reveals. “It’s a bit of a shame since we haven’t had time to visit yet and they’ll be gone for a while. I don’t know when we’ll be able to see her new home now,” she sighs, but the corners of her eyes are still crinkled. Clearly Gemma must have been more excited about her move than dejected to push back Anne and Harry’s visit.

Harry snorts at that, the same noise she’d made back in the cave. Unease sticks to Louis like honey.

“Don’t know when we’ll be able to see her at all.” Her whisper is low, barely audible above the burning wood, the spluttering of the flames licking the air, angry and vengeful.

At that, Anne’s smile drops.

“Harry” she lets out, more sad and regretful than scolding. Harry doesn’t answer, picking her spoon and resuming eating. Anne sighs again, but this time the corner of her eyes is smooth. A line, however, has etched itself on her forehead.

After a few moments of quiet, she speaks again.

“Louis, I hope you know you’re welcome to any writing supplies you might need if you ever want to send letters.”

Louis’ gaze meets Anne’s, vision filling with a stinging blurriness she wills away. From the absence of noise from Harry’s plate, she knows she’s probably studying her too.

“I’ll probably take you up on that offer,” Louis replies steadier than she thought. “Thank you.”

Anne nods, smile humble but back on her face.

“You’re welcome.”

The drizzle is still here the following morning. Louis has the urge to open her window, to feel the tiny droplets on her skin, but when she does the cold immediately numbs her skin and she can’t feel the water. Frost would have assuredly gathered on the grass if it wasn’t for the relentlessness of the rain. She understands Niall’s insistence better now.

Liam is the only one in the kitchen when Louis comes downstairs, both sharing a few slices of brioche she’d baked the previous day. Louis praises the treat, its buttery aroma feeling decadent so early in the morning. She doesn’t stop herself from dipping it in tea, loving how the flavours combine in her mouth, coating everything in sweet, rich bitterness. She hasn’t treated herself to brioche in a very long while and the taste sparks a child-like giddiness in her tummy. She feels the air trapped in the crumb fizzing inside of her, bubbles of eagerness to start the day, to brighten it somehow. 

She manages to get a few laughs out of Liam by telling stories of her sisters’ shenanigans, of the stains that resulted from them, the cuts she had to clean. The mischief that runs deep in them all, Louis included. She also helps to revive the fires in the house despite Liam’s protests, keeping clear from the rooms she isn’t allowed in but happy to help. They find Niall as she walks out of Harry’s study, closing the door tight behind her which does nothing to dampen Louis’ desire to sneak past her and gain Harry’s attention, explore something new again. She refrains herself : antagonising Harry would only shatter the fragile and tentative bound they’ve formed. And encroaching on her space without her invitation, even if it is to have her shut the door on her, would fit right into that category.

She wants to let Harry come to her. Some things are alright to pry open; people aren’t. 

Louis goes back to the abandoned room for a while, trying to further her reading of _Phèdre_ , but she finds herself reading over the same sentence almost a dozen times without catching or holding onto any words and even less so on their meaning. The same page has been open for a while now, letters dancing in front of her eyes while her thoughts dance elsewhere. Floating around the house, still imbued of the morning’s eagerness to be with someone. She leaves the _toile de jouy_ behind, patting the armrest of her self appointed chair one last time before leaving the room. There’s no more noises from Harry’s study, nor from her room. Her steps lead her to the main staircase, unfamiliar; a way she’s only taken once, too used to the hidden stairs to feel like she’s allowed to use the other ones. Still, she puts her hand on the railing, fingers curled along the polished stone, gliding smoothly against the veined marble. 

On the threshold, she halts. Harry is in the sitting room, visible through the jade painted arches, comfortably sat on one of the benches. There's a forgotten sewing kit by her side, bundles of colourful threads mixing together like a bouquet of cottony wildflowers. She’s not looking at it, not looking at Louis either. Her eyes are set on the horizon, looking clearer than ever in the bright light streaming in, winter sun washing over everything in oblique rays that flatten the land, the house. But not Harry. It drapes over her, a translucent yellow veil that coats her face and the front of her ivory blouse. She’s wearing separates, a surprising change from her usual dresses, but Louis finds it lovely. The ochre of her skirts reveals something in her iris, a touch of gold that had never shined before. Maybe it was just waiting for the proper moment to do so.

The parquet creaks as Louis’ weight shifts. If she hadn’t been watching intently, she would have missed the small startle of Harry’s body. A simple move of her shoulders, a twitch of her hands, one folded in her lap, the other resting against one of the window frames. Seconds pass in silence before Harry slowly tilts her head, acknowledging Louis’ presence officially.

Louis can feel her cheeks heating up a bit with the sense of being caught red handed. “I’ve done nothing wrong” loops in her head like a mantra.

“Hello Louis,” Harry addresses, turning her head to peer at her, no other limbs moving. 

“Hi Harry.” She steps forward before stopping : Harry has not invited her in her space, she will not invade it herself.

“I was thinking of reading in the living room for a bit if that doesn’t bother you,” she asks, hands automatically lifting her copy of _Phèdre_ , using it as a token of good faith and intentions. She wouldn’t have asked if the arches between the two rooms could be transformed, allowing a proper separation, but it doesn’t seem to be the case.

Harry’s eyes slightly widen at that with something that looks like confusion but isn’t quite what has settled there. 

“Of course, you don’t have to ask,” Harry says but Louis is already shaking her head.

“I do. I know you’re a gracious host, Harry, but I wouldn’t want to invade upon any moment of tranquility or peace.”

Harry is watching her with inquisitive eyes, not adding anything to Louis’ statement. They don’t rake over her, just remain simply set on her face, focusing on one detail after the other, switching from time to time.

Louis raises her book again, pointing to an armchair in the neighbouring room with it.

“I’ll just get settled then.”

At that Harry nods, pupils now set on Louis’s hands, the book clutched between them. Then a bit above, on her wrist, before running up her arm to reach her shoulder, her neck, her face.

The flush of her cheeks looks a shade of almost-coral in the sunset.

“Sure,” she coughs, eyes landing on the hand in her lap, fingers tightly wound in the fabric over it.

Louis doesn’t step away yet, enjoying the view. There’s something minutely less guarded in Harry’s face now, a presence in her posture that wasn’t there moments ago as she was gazing at the landscape.

“Are you feeling okay today?” is what she asks, spurred on by Harry’s blush, by her middle and ring fingers tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, by her nails stroking her skirts carefully.

Harry doesn’t ponder before answering, head tilting up to face Louis once more.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

Louis’ mind goes to the dinner they shared the previous day. The tension that filled the room, strings tying Harry and Anne pulled taught, a few strands of them snapping away. She wants to say something, mouth already opening to speak up, to spill well chosen words. The only thing that comes out is an exhale, sounding close to a sigh, before a large inspiration takes its place.

“I wanted to ask. To make sure. I’m sorry if that’s silly,” she shrugs, unwilling to spook that particular animal away.

This time, Harry takes more time. Her gaze is heavy, studying Louis again with the utmost attention. Finally, she speaks.

“I’m fine, Louis. Thank you for your concern.”

Her upper lip is twisted on both sides, a grin she’s refusing to let out into the world. It’s still too loud, successful in breaking free.

Louis finally turns around, stepping fully into the living room and sinking into a cozy looking armchair. Its padding is newer, less marked with repeated seatings and yet it feels less comfortable to Louis than the one in the attic. Still, she cannot complain. She opens her book, carefully lulled by the crackling of the logs in the fire, flames licking into their crevices to turn them black.

When the sky has darkened, she hears steps nearby; loud at first, then muffled by the large carpet in the middle of the room. There’s the ruffle of fabric, a soft squeak then a thud.

When she looks to her right, Harry has nestled herself in the sofa next to her. She’s picked up her sewing, wooden circle secure in one hand, needle steadily working in the other.

Tender affection swells in Louis’ breast, radiating to the rest of her body right to the tip of her limbs. Head to toes, drenched in it.

They stay like this until Liam calls them for dinner.


	3. III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Playlist for this chapter](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5p9AqvAhvAaEDI175T7l38?si=dJ2XYyYISraNngCb43tiEg)

The rain doesn’t let up for four days. Louis doesn’t mind. If she misses the walks with Harry at first, their quiet companionship is a more than satisfactory replacement. Without any acknowledgement of their new habit, they spend a few hours together each day in the living room or the sitting room, simply being together, both focused on their own activity. Harry’s embroidery is filling out fast, her long fingers deftly puncturing the fabric with the needle, thimble protecting them from any harm. Threads glide softly in the holes, colours hypnotizingly shifting in the light, marking the passing of time. Louis would openly stare if she wasn’t so busy pretending to read. In the end, she makes some progress, ending each day with more pages under her belt as when she started. But she knows those numbers would be much higher if she was reading by herself. She finds that she doesn’t want to.

Truth be told, Louis loves those moments. There’s a form of respite there, right by Harry’s side, that she has never experienced before. She still adores spending time with Liam and Niall, Harry now joining them in the kitchen more often than not. There is joy in those gatherings : the four of them chatting about their plans for the day, Louis learning about Liam and Niall’s families, Harry slowly but surely quipping up more and more during their discussions. All together at the kitchen table. Choosing to start the day with each other.

Louis likes her alone time as well. She still explores the abandoned room, finding treasures under the sheets that she’s too afraid to ask about. A pile of letters addressed to Lady Anne Selley, tied up in a pretty mauve ribbon. An old and wonky night table topped with the remains of a beautiful inlay - two birds, some leaves, a branch heavy with apricots - its only drawer locked. A chest filled with wooden toys that Louis has too much fun with for a grand total of forty minutes, especially the spinning-top, as well as the cup and ball game. There are more trinkets and baubles tucked away, forgotten. Louis likes to sit down with them at her armchair, run her fingers on their edges, look at them closely in the dusty sunrays. Likes to imagine the stories they belong in. 

She never moves her painting to the room. It would feel like a desecration, forcing creation in a place dedicated to remembrance. Trying to breathe new life in a place where air and time have joined, both suspended. She leaves it in her room, coming to it religiously right after lunch and before bed. The portrait requires faithfulness and dedication to be charmed, to unfold itself onto the canvas under Louis’ careful hands. She knows it’s coming closer to the finishing point, Harry’s face becoming clearer, more detailed with each hour Louis spends with her. Soon, only the background will remain undone.

Amidst it all, sharing moments alone with the real Harry is a solace. Pockets of time and space where existing is the only requirement. No need to entertain anyone, to keep herself busy. No pressing urge to roam the grounds, to explore the island. Just the desire to reach out and brush Harry’s hair out of her face where they keep falling, to trace her brows with her fingers instead of filling them in with paint, oil bleeding with turpentine.

Sometimes, when she looks up from the words on the paper and over to her, Harry is already watching her. At first she’d tear her eyes away quickly, pink grazing the top of her cheekbones and lingering for a while. Now, she doesn’t. She keeps on watching, glancing at things Louis can’t see herself that fascinate her enough to spend several seconds studying them. Something on Louis’ cheek, another near her ear; something in her eyes and maybe by her mouth. Harry’s gaze relents only once she’s had her fill.

Once in a while, Louis will comment on Harry’s work, give out words of compliment that could easily apply to her. The smooth curve of a line, the particular shade of a petal, the detailed texture of a stem. Each time, Harry smiles, a small thing that slowly spreads, cracked lips licked over gleaming in the evening sunlight. It’s worth breaking the silence for.

The skies clear on Tuesday morning. Frost has covered everything during the night, tethering shimmering ice to grass as far as the eye can see. Admiration swells in Louis’ heart at the sight, eyes sparkling with wonder. She knows after all her years of work that some things are too striking to try to recreate on canvas. It’s a privilege to enjoy them, and in the pale gold of the early hours, she feels every ounce of it as she stares outside.

The air inside the house is crisper, drier. She knows Liam and Niall will want to compensate, tend to all the fires inside with renewed fervor, but she likes the bite of it. The gripping strength that warns every living thing that winter’s reign has fully begun.

She cleans up quickly, bundling up in some of her warmest clothes, woolen stockings firmly pulled on her calves. She climbs down the stairs in a flurry of skirts, heavy shawl trailing behind her, welcomed in the kitchen by Niall and Liam’s grinning faces.

“I’m going outside today,” she announces before any of them has time to greet her. Her plate is already set on the table, an apple tart and slices of bread nestled right beside it, just waiting for her. 

Niall’s grins wider, a chortling sound escaping her mouth before she can keep it down. There’s a high chance she doesn’t mind, or really cares about allowing the full range of her laugh. Liam seems more perplexed, concerned eyes drifting to the window as if she’s assessing how safe it would be.

“I know it’s colder but there’s no rain at all. Come on, look at this sky, I don’t think I’ve seen it so clear since I’ve arrived!”

Liam tilts her head in consideration, looking every bit like she’s mentally going through every day of Louis’ stay, evaluating the weather they’ve had. 

“You’re actually right,” Niall says, hand steadily filling the teapot to the brim. She brings it to the table, sitting down in front of one of the cups prepared for her and Liam.

“If you want to go outside, I’m not gonna argue with you this time. If you want to push that far, we still need soap from the village. Others bits and bobs too,” she continues, pouring tea for her, Liam and Louis. Liam joins them, sipping the beverage quietly, cup gathered in both hands.

“Sure,” Louis answers, unable to keep the enthusiasm from colouring her voice. She can’t wait to feel the frosty wind numbing her face, the crunch of the fields under her feet.

“Would one of you accompany me?”

They both shake their heads at the same time, almost in perfect unison.

“With that cold we’ll need to check about the house to see if there’s anything that needs fixing before it’s truly settled in. Anne will want to get everything in order and there’s still a bit of cleaning to do. It’s been a while since we’ve done Gemma’s room, and Anne insists it needs to be kept as well as the rest of the house.”

Louis nods, unruffled. She doesn’t mind going into town alone. Although, there’s still a possibility she might not have to.

“Is Harry around yet?” she asks, eyes peeking at them over her teacup.

Liam hums, contrite expression on her face.

“I’m sorry, I don’t think she is yet. She hasn’t set foot outside her room for now.”

Louis tries not to sigh out loud but she can’t fight against the spark of disappointment in her stomach. Her hands clutch her cup tighter, latching on the tendrils of warmth seeping from it into her open palms.

“Alright,” she nods, “I’ll go by myself then.”

Niall makes a face, both displeased and thoughtful.

“We can go on another day together if you prefer,” she offers but Louis is already shaking her head.

“No, don’t worry. I really don’t mind going alone and I could really use the walk. I’d even go as far as say it’ll please me,” she urges, brows raised in an expectant line, waiting for Niall’s expression to be replaced with a less concerned one. It takes mere seconds.

Louis had missed this. 

The land stretching for miles, uninterrupted, gusts of wind sweeping across the meadows and bending flowers and blades of grass alike. The frost is even more blinding under the sun, reflecting every bit of it in tiny sparkles that light up the way. Some clings onto her shoes and skirts, turning into droplets of dew once they hit fabric and leather.

The journey is uneventful, letting Louis’ mind float to a serene space where green hills and blue sky melt together infinitely. She’s never experienced such expanses, horizons kept short and dark in the small alleys of Paris, buildings tall and looming over all. Monuments have grandeur, there’s no denying it, and the golden details of the _Comedie Française_ ceilings have always delighted her. But there’s something right here, on these deserted planes punctuated with warm, tight-knit life, that unravels a cluster of something deep within her she’d never been aware of. Maybe it is the clear opening to explore oneself. 

She finds her way back to the town’s limits easily, recalling with no trouble her first visit with Niall and the path they’d taken. She awkwardly makes her way to the shops she remembers first, mentally ticking items off the list Niall had run through with her. Everyone welcomes her, not as warmly as they had when Niall was with her but still amiable enough, helping her with no quarries or cautiousness. Soon, the basket Liam had given her rests heavy in the crook of her elbow, and there’s only one final stop to make. 

When Louis pushes the creaky door of the apothecary, Zayn is already behind the counter, half of it covered with bouquets or piles of dried herbs and flowers. The floral scent is powerful, immediately taking Louis in. Zayn looks up, brows lifting slightly, her warm brown eyes setting on her gently.

“So you did come back,” she says, hands twisting twine to secure a bundle of plants together.

“Well, you did ask,” Louis responds while peering curiously at what Zayn’s doing. Once the knot is tied and Zayn’s gaze is back on her, she raises her basket. “We also needed a few things so I thought, you know, kill two birds with one stone.”

Zayn smiles a calm little thing that hides mischief almost too well, accompanying it with a tilt of her head.

“Well, thank you. I was growing curious but I know that visits from the manor become rarer when winter comes. Niall and Liam, they have to tend to it and the journey is less… agreeable.”

Louis chuckles, peeking at the melted frost gathered on her shoes. Tiny specks still icy, clinging.

“So far I’m faring better than I thought, I’ll say.”

“That you are,” Zayn hums. Louis’ not sure whether they’re still talking about the weather.

A few seconds pass, both assessing each other openly, quietly. There’s no challenge there, not anymore. Just curiosity and recognition.

“If that’s any consolation, it doesn’t really get much colder than that in winter. Only around the middle of January, but I’m not sure you’re staying that long?”

Louis shakes her head. 

“Probably not staying for much longer,” she says, and the thought dawns on her, heavy with everything it carries with it. “I’ve finished most of it, there are only some details in the expression and the dress I need to attend to but otherwise… I think it’s nearly ready.” She feels her mind stretching, aware of how it wants to look closer, finds faults where there are none. She’s made sure of it, devoted to painting a beautiful picture worth bearing Harry’s likeness. The rich red of the dress compliments her green eyes perfectly, coaxes the deep brown of her hair to light. Her complexion is as clear as the seafoam she loves to stare at, a hint of colour for the sand they walked on.

Zayn is looking at her oddly. Her head is tilted again, but this time it’s not bearing any thankfulness. Just a sad consideration that hooks into Louis’s throat, her chest, and tugs.

“Soon, then,” Zayn asks, dejected. If Louis had the pretence of knowing her well, she would even say she sounds disappointed. But she doesn’t, and won’t have the time to explore any friendship with her in the time she has left. She nods. Silence stretches one more, but it’s mournful this time, already filled with goodbyes.

Zayn’s fingers tap on the counter one, two, three times before she lays her hand flat.

“Would you want to help me with these then?” She points at the flowers with her fingernail, grazing a stem tenderly.

“I’d love to.”

They talk as they work, voices as swift as their fingers. Zayn compliments Louis’ dexterity, both laughing when she retells Niall’s attempts at the same task. For all she does at the house, the delicate work is left to Liam for a reason. Louis talks about her life in Paris the same way she had with Niall: easily, with trust. The kind you give when you’re somewhere only for so long, thinking that you’ll probably never meet the people you’re telling your stories to ever again. An island near the end of the earth is a good place for one to unburden themselves, to spill secrets that were never meant to become ones.

She learns that Zayn’s father is a merchant, born in Punjab with a desire to explore the world. Met her mother in Scotland, settling for a while before travelling again when Zayn could join him. She didn’t go far, settling on Belle-île after they had explored the coasts of England and France, when she had seen the old apothecary needed an apprentice. He didn’t care that she was a girl, and that was blessing enough.

“They send me letters,” she whispers, hands carefully picking at some lavender, “my parents. I don’t often know where to write back or if they’ll already be gone when what I send arrives, but they always do. They send me things too. Flowers, mainly. Bela and bougainvillea, gladiolus and marigolds.”

Louis’ hands pause in their work, the bristle of dried leaves quieting for a moment.

“You never think about joining them?”

Zayn takes some time to answer, fingers never stilling.

“I think I might travel, but not now. I want to try when I have the urge to, when it’s stronger than the one I have to stay here.”

“It isn’t, so far,” Louis states.

Zayn shakes her head once, focus still on her flowers.

“No.” She peeks at Louis then, a spark of something in her eye, “it’s pretty strong, that one.” 

It earns her a smile, lopsided, already gone.

“That it is.”

Louis comes home almost two hours later, basket heavier than when she arrived at Zayn’s. She immediately heads for the kitchen but stops in her tracks. In the door frame, right above the few steps leading up to the sitting and living rooms stands Harry. Her hair is down this time, waves curling up slightly past her shoulders, draped around her face. With the sunlight already dimming, the way she is now echoes the moment she took care of Louis vividly. A piece transposed across time, cut from the fabric of reality to be affixed to this specific instant.

“You were out.”

Her voice is low, as low as the rays streaming in from the side windows. Distant too, the way she would speak to Anne during those dinners sometimes. Affected by something she has no intention to spell out into the world. Louis can feel her fingertips tingling, filling up with the urge to rest their weight on Harry’s waist, support it upright and lessen the rigidity that spears her spine. 

“I was. I went to the village to grab things Niall asked for.”

Harry says nothing. For once, Louis can’t read what she feels on her features. They’re hidden away, blurred by the setting sun and keeping any insight from Louis. She’s fumbling her way around, going in blind. Eager to help, to come closer.

There’s only a bit of silence to go from. But then.

“Flowers?” Harry asks, head jutting out to point at the bouquet of dried plants peeking from one end of the basket.

Louis smiles at that, heart instantly warmed.

“They’re from Zayn,” she nods.

“I see.”

“I’ve got to put all of that away, in the kitchen. Is Niall there?”

When she looks up, Harry is standing further away, shadows obscuring her even more.

“Probably.”

“I’ll get it to her then. Would you like to come with me?” she asks, taking a step towards Harry. It’s immediately stopped when Harry shakes her head.

“I’ve got things to deal with here, thank you.”

Before Louis can say anything else, Harry is already walking away.

She finds Niall in the kitchen and hands her everything she asked for from the basket, Zayn's addition of balm and herbal preparation lengthening the already substantial list of items. They talk quietly for a bit, only joined by Liam almost an hour later.

“Zayn gave me these for you,” Louis announces as soon as Liam enters, dried bouquet in hand and already pushed towards her. It turns out Liam would have known even if Louis hadn’t said a word, the flowers gathered in the tight rope a mix of Liam’s favourite ones. Niall and Louis’ eyes met over the table, matching grins safely tucked away for later perusal. 

Harry doesn’t come down later, nor for dinner. Liam gives no indication that anything is amiss when she’s back from checking on her. 

“She’s just a bit tired. To be fair, she wasn’t very talkative all day. An off one probably.”

Niall just looks over at Louis, quipping up.

“Been a while since she had one, hasn’t it?”

Liam hums her assent while Louis looks into her cup, lost in thought about what could have troubled Harry between yesterday and today. Difficult to know, she ponders, as she wasn’t there.

After two days, Louis realises that she’s being avoided.

No matter how many times she’s waiting for Harry to come out of hiding, she never seems to catch her outside of places she’s never set foot in. She hears noises from Harry’s study, others from her bedroom as she goes to bed. But there’s no sign of her out there during the day. Louis would think she’s back to her first days in the manor if it wasn’t for Harry’s presence at dinner. But Louis is not sure if she prefers it to her absence. Harry answers to Anne with no issues, no warmer or colder than what Louis is used to. But whatever Louis will ask or say, Harry ignores. Only hums or answers with one word that leaves Louis more hungry than before. She retreats quickly, disappearing into the night only to reappear as shadows in the corridors, vanishing like smoke.

There’s oddly no frustration building in Louis’ chest. Just determination.

For Harry to come out, she needs to offer something greater than the safety solitude brings. Because despite Harry’s bitterness that day in the cave, Louis knows.She’s become familiar with Harry’s tides, her hesitant push before ebbing away at the smallest sting. She’s too used to swaying on her own to realise she now has a dancing partner, someone willing to reach for her and pull her back in.

At night, as she puts the finishing touch on the painting’s face, Louis considers something. Something that tickles her mind the following day. This time, she doesn’t spend time looking around after Harry, doesn’t hide away dejectedly in the forgotten room, doesn’t reluctantly paint a piece she doesn’t want to complete. She simply heads for the ballroom, wood barely creaking under her, a soft rag clutched in her hand. She brushes the stool vigorously, clouds of dust left in her wake. Then wipes away the top of the piano, the cover, the keys. Decisive, gentle motions that get rid of negligence past. She pays attention to the small corners where particles have gathered, clumped together, hard to nudge away. In a few minutes, the piano is spotless. As if it had never been cast aside.

With a satisfied sigh, Louis sits down, hands naturally resting above the keys, hovering without touching the wood. She closes her eyes and starts to play.

Fingers meet solid with confidence, the one that comes after years and years of practice. No stumble in the melody, only clear notes that bloom in the cold air of winter like edelweisses. They weave together in crowns, bracelets of flowers that fit together neatly, bearing joy and tenderness. The sonata is cheerful, filled with the giggles that spilled from her lips when her mother taught it to her, the ones from her sisters as they’d dance erratically when Louis would play for them. Silly, sunny. A song to cast away the gloom. Mozart, Sonata n°16. _Facile_.

She’s losing herself in her playing, as she almost always does. Wrists light, guiding without ever bending, a bad habit her mother managed to coax out of her painstakingly. Now, she doesn’t even have to think about it, the correct stance coming to her naturally.

She doesn’t stop playing when she hears the parquet giving way behind her, slow creaks betraying Harry’s presence. She doesn’t stop even as she feels the hair at the back of her neck rise up, tingling with awareness of Harry’s body being closer to hers now than ever in the past week. She doesn’t stop when Harry lets out a breath, tickling the junction of her shoulder and her throat. She keeps playing the piece until its very end, hands never straying.

Then, they rest on the edge of the keyboard, waiting.

After what seems like eons, Harry breaks the silence. 

“Is that what you meant when you said your hands were better at something else?”

It seems that Louis did find something worthy after all.

She starts playing again, lullabies she’d sing to the girls to put them to sleep or to bring comfort.

“I wouldn’t say that my playing is better than my writing,” she grins, unable to keep her smugness from seeping in her voice. Harry moves slightly to the side, already too far for Louis’ liking. She’s just standing there, almost looming, and Louis would very much love to see her face. But she’s still waiting, not ready to give up the chase yet. Afraid to make the smallest wrong move and set her off.

A few seconds pass, beating with the notes that fall between them. Finally, Louis turns her head, looking up. 

She’d almost forgotten what it was like to have Harry’s attention. The intensity of her eyes locking onto hers, drinking everything in, desperate to know, learn and discover. To understand.

To be understood, too.

So now, being at the center of it again, she can’t help but smile. Something she’d find too soft on any other occasion. Too enamoured, transparent; too giving. But this time, she lets it be.

The twitch of Harry’s lip is worth the risk.

As if she was waiting too, Harry sits by Louis’ side. Waiting for Louis to acknowledge her presence, to allow her into her space, into herself.

Louis can feel the heat of her body, arms brushing before they press together, skirts overlapping. She lets her gaze rest on the fabrics of their dresses, the contrasting purple and pale yellow complimenting each other wonderfully.

“Would you…” Harry starts and stops. She bites her lip, just a little piece of it, making it pinker under her teeth. Louis’s limbs tense with each pull of her jaw. She hums, a rising, questioning sound that begs Harry to keep talking.

“Would you play for me, please?”

Louis hadn’t realised she’d stopped playing, focus so entirely given to her companion she’d abandoned her hands. They rest idle against the keys. She startles, looks at them incredulously as if they just betrayed her.

“Of course.”

She picks one of her favourites. One she hasn’t heard in a while but one that she could play in her sleep. Its notes and stances are engraved in her phalanges, anchored to them the way only nights and days of rehearsing do. The music flows, swelling only softly at times, a stream of water running its natural course. Repetitive motifs that deepen and gain height as the piece goes, a relationship that grows and ages and lasts. Easy as breathing. Easy as loving. 

Both of her hands land on the final chord perfectly, letting it resonate in the air, emptying out the space between her and Harry. She sighs, waits a while, goes for playing another piece but Harry’s hand is suddenly on hers.

Oddly, she knew her skin would be soft. It’s a little dry too; bare. Perfect to run one’s nail against it just to watch goosebumps wake.

She moves her hands back from the key; Harry’s linger. For a beat, two. Then, retreat.

Louis sees Harry’s turning towards her from the corner of her eyes. She cannot move though, strangely petrified by the touch.

“That was very beautiful, Louis.”

It’s barely louder than a whisper, but it is heavy and wet. She turns to look immediately at that, surprised by the look on Harry’s face. There’s a storm there, or more precisely the remnants of it. Moistened sands and quieting waves, shells and sea glass shining, small treasures gathered at the corners of her eyes.There are flecks of hazel in her irises, tiny ones in an ocean of pale green. A darker ring that frames it all. Louis’s missed on so much.

“Thank you,” she says instead of reaching out the way she wants to, eager to capture again the hand that left her too soon. Harry’s lids lower, lashes fanning out as her gaze lands on her lap. She clears her throat, fingers twisting each other.

Louis feels herself stare.

“Would you like to learn?”

Harry whips her head up, brow rising higher than ever before. Louis barely contains a chuckle at her excitement.

“Yes,” Harry nods, her braided bun bouncing with it.

Louis slides a bit on the stool, leaving more room for Harry to face the piano better. She does so hesitantly, gaze darting to Louis once as if to check something. Louis isn’t quite sure what.

“That one was the first real piece I learned,” Louis says, trying to reassure Harry as much as she can. “Prelude in C, from Bach. It uses basic hand positions and figures, but we’ll still have to start off with scales.”

Harry smiles at that.

“I know those, I used to watch Gemma play.”

“Good then, my little prodigy,” Louis grins in answer, eyes finding Harry’s easily. “Show me then.”

Harry does.

They play for more than an hour, Harry glancing up at Louis anytime her fingers land on the wrong key, startled by a note she wasn’t expecting. She earns a few giggles that way, letting out some of her own when Louis gently chides her for not paying attention to the weight in her hands; inches between them only shrinking as time flies by.

Niall coming to fetch them for dinner startles them but doesn’t precipitate their separation. They linger a minute or two, Harry’s fingertips caressing the black keys with a tenderness that reminds Louis too much of her own.

“I really liked today,” Harry admits quietly, Niall long gone.

“I’m glad.”

Another swipe of her finger against the dark.

“I’m sorry,” Harry says then, finger stilling. She sighs, body and lungs and herself deflating with it. “For how I… behaved these past days.”

For a moment, Louis lets herself be. She reaches out, lays her hand on top of Harry’s, barely pressing down in reassurance.

“It’s alright. It happens,” she says and she means it. Harry has her moods, but she just hasn’t seen Louis’ yet. Might even never have the chance.

There’s relief on Harry’s face, however it doesn’t chase the remorse entirely.

“Alright.”

Louis squeezes once more, allows her thumb to move once, left to right. As she stands up, it’s the last thing to leave Harry’s skin.

“Come on, they’re waiting for us.”

She’s the first one out of the door, Harry’s hurrying steps echoing right behind her.

The following days, things are back to what they were before. Louis, Harry, Liam and Niall eat breakfast all together, the four of them tucked at the kitchen table, talking between bites of bread and sips of tea. Laughter fizzes in the air, warming the room steadily as their bellies fill up with hearty food and good company. Liam has finally fully relaxed around Louis, much to her enjoyment. She accepts her help putting up the table and brewing tea under her watchful eye, Niall sat at the table and entertaining Harry who came down early this time. Studying the way they are then, the friendliness that floats and ties them as well as Liam, Louis understands that their bond runs deeper than she first thought. Harry doesn’t treat them as servants, and they don’t hold her as a mistress. In Anne’s absence, the footing feels more equal, Niall’s inquisitive concern towards Harry’s late fatigue more sisterly than anything else. Harry, for her part, reassures her to the best of her abilities, listening to Niall’s advice with the expression of someone indulging a friend. She never disregards Niall’s words once. Strangely, that newfound knowledge heats Louis’s cheek more than the steam coming from the boiling water.

Liam remains on the more poised side, but in those moments early in the day as well as late in the evening, the weight on her shoulders seems to lessen a tad, allowing Louis to get a glimpse of the genuineness of her spirit. Her kindness is never faked, nor is her affection for others, her care. She laughs openly at Niall’s quips and Louis’ jokes, gives out well chosen answers to Harry’s inquiries. 

Harry. Harry is different too. She stays with them almost from morning till night, sometimes quiet, just sharing their space and soaking up the presences around her, eyes alert, a thousand thoughts running behind them. When she speaks then, the other three are bound to listen, not willing to speak over a sentence that often brings wonderful insight. Then, there are the times when she sparkles with joy, lips stretched in sunny beams, mouth inquiring about how they are, how the day has been, no matter how often they’ve all met each other in the hallways of the house. It’s as if she’s pressing on each of their shoulders, a warm hand saying “I hope you are well, I care that you are.”

She even asks Louis, despite spending long whiles by her side. Harry still disappears from time to time during the day, but now it always comes with a warning, a few words telling Louis she’ll be back with her before dinner. They walk sometimes, small explorations around the manor that don’t last as long as their previous ones did. Still, in the open air, conversations flow easily, as if something has been nudged loose. Harry mentions Gemma more, pieces of memories that float right from childhood and teenage years. Stories of games and adventures, tea dates with children they'd never see again and others they’d brush elbows with later in life. Generally at balls, most often on the mainland.

Harry asks questions too. About Louis’ life in Paris, about her sisters and her friends. She always answers honestly, longing missing from her chest when she thinks of things she’d been a full part of not even a month prior.

So, maybe Louis is different too. Maybe things are not really back to the way they were. 

In the afternoons, when they reunite in the living room, they take their usual spots: Louis reading in the armchair, Harry sewing on the sofa. However, now, Harry asks Louis about what she’s reading. Small questions, shyness trailing further behind each time she speaks up. Sometimes she’ll look at Louis as she speaks as if it’ll result in better or faster answers. She should know that, in any case, Louis will indulge.

“You finished the previous one quickly,” Harry inquires early on, tone as curious as ever.

“I had started it before I arrived here. I’m a pretty fast reader, I’ve been told,” was Louis’ response, hand punctuating her point by waving about her battered copy of _Les Amants Magnifiques_.

Harry had hummed, a small grin tucked at the corner of her mouth, urging Louis to lift her eyebrow in a question of her own.

“What is it?”

“Nothing, I just thought back then that it was already impressive you knew how to read at all. Now you tell me you’re a quick one at that. Piano, potential writer and a very decent tea maker. Is there anything you can’t do?” Despite the compliments she addresses Louis, Harry looks as if she is congratulating herself, eyes squinted with mirth. 

Louis just laughs the praises away, waving them off with a move of her wrist; tucking her head closer to her chest to hide her blush.

If it wasn’t for the painting looming in her bedroom, Louis would even forget why she’s really here. Despite all of her desperate attempts at stalling the inevitable, the final brushstroke is almost there. Already is, really, if Louis was willing to lay it on the canvas. Complete the portrait, and with it her mission.

She holds the only proof of Harry’s fate. One that’s never spoken of. Amidst all of the stilted talks over dinner with Anne, the simpler discussions with the girls, the precious admissions from Harry, the marriage is never mentioned. It floats like a ghost, right at the limit of the house, of the island. Waiting for Harry, for Louis. Waiting but never called upon.

The closest thing is a passing mention, once, in the evening. A comment from Niall.

“This winter is pretty decent so far. I mean I know we’re in the early days, but there’s been no storm and our stocks have been well managed,” she says, tea twirling in her cup with a swish of her hand. “I hope they’ll be like that in England.”

It comes with a blanket of silence, heavy, itchy, settling over everyone. It’s almost funny, Louis thinks, how Niall and Liam refuse to meet Harry’s eye. They couldn’t if they tried: Harry is just staring at the bottom of her cup, steel meeting china, willing it to melt away. She drinks the rest of her drink in one go, fingers tight, her other hand fisting the skirts on her lap. The cups clinks against the table as she sets it down briskly.

“They’ll just be the same,” she concludes. 

In the meantime, Louis just watches. Watches this storm of a woman brewing and brewing without ever spilling out in tidal waves. As Harry glances back, she’s caught in the eye of it, unable to tear herself away. Harry blinks, stands up slowly before picking up her cup and setting it in the sink.

“I’m gonna go to bed, goodnight.”

Watching her retreat, Louis thinks of the painting in her room; picks up her glass, drinks the thought away.

“Somehow, I didn’t exactly picture it like this,” is what Niall says when she gets a look at Harry’s portrait. She’d come to Louis’ bedroom with new logs in hand and curiosity in her eyes. The comment unsettles Louis more than she wants to admit, even to herself.

“What do you mean?” she asks, coming right behind Niall to peer at the painting, an ugly form of resentment settling in the bottom of her stomach, coating everything in sight.

“I don’t know. It’s just… not what I expected,” Niall replies, tone rising as if asking a question. Then, she does so openly.

“Has she not opened up to you then? I thought she had?” Her attention is as much on Louis as it is on Harry’s imitation now, torn between the two.

“I… I think so. I mean, we talk a lot. We spend time together,” Louis defends, hackles rising without her wanting them to. She can’t will them down.

Niall just hums, noise grating on Louis’ nerve despite its harmlessness.

“Well then, what do you mean?” She knows she’s raising her voice, sees it on Niall’s face and the look she receives immediately chides her just as much as it placates her rising nervousness.

“I just mean that what you’ve painted, Louis, is a beautiful picture. I see Harry, I see her likeness,” Niall starts after a few seconds, thought carefully mulled over. “However, I don’t recognize her. You’ve painted the image of her, the one she wants us to see, the one she crafts really well. It’s a beautiful one and you’ve rendered it perfectly, don’t doubt that,” she continues, hand coming to rest on Louis’ arm as if to reassure her. “But what I’m asking here is, is this what you’ve seen of her? No, wait… More like, is this how you know her?”

At Niall’s words, Louis’ eyes land on her work wider than before. Considering. 

She remembers Zayn’s odd sadness when she’d talk about the painting. She thinks about her own dislike of it. Niall’s own reservation.

She wonders what Harry would think.

“You know, sometimes she asks about you.”

Niall spills sentences like they’re secrets. They probably are, and all of them are most assuredly well protected within the seal of her lips. This one, though, she lets escape willingly.

“What?” Louis whispers, eyes still roaming on Harry’s face.

“She wonders about where you go when she hides away. She knows you’re not with us, but she still asks. She asks what we think of you, thinks about things you said. When you were gone to town I thought I was back to years ago when she’d sulk for hours on end when she didn’t get things her way. She’s only slightly less whiny now.” Niall’s last words come out in a chuckle, a slight breath that steals Louis’ own.

With that, Niall steps away from the easel, gathering the remaining logs in her arms before heading towards the door.

As she twists the handle, she speaks again.

“I thought you should know.” 

With that, she disappears in the night.

“I’m going to visit my brother for a few weeks.”

Anne’s voice cuts the sound of knives and forks scraping against their plates. 

Dinner had been rather quiet, no tense atmosphere lingering this time, only peaceful silence scratched at with harmless questions and three words answers.

Louis’ head whips up, mouth agape. She wasn’t expecting Anne to speak up, even less so to say what she just did.

Harry’s shares none of her surprise if the expression on her face is to be trusted. Louis doesn’t, though, so she digs a bit deeper. Even then, there’s no hurt in her eyes either, just a hint of curiosity mirrored in the stillness of her spoon, stopped in mid-air.

“Which one?” she asks and there’s no anger in her voice either. Louis files the knowledge for later probing, if Harry allows it.

“David,” Anne answers, tilting her way towards Louis to add, “lives in Brighton, a bit drab but throws the most wonderful parties.”

Harry snorts at that, a tiny sound that changes Anne’s expression to reproachfully amused.

“Well, they are to me,” she states to counter Harry’s wordless protest.

Harry hums as if to tease her mom further and Louis realizes it’s the first time she’s seen such lightness between them both. No underlying animosity, resentment or worry. Just an exhale, a truce. It brings a slow smile to her lips. 

“When will you be leaving?” Harry asks, spoon back in her plate to gather the last of the soup.

“In a few days. Three or four at most. I’ll spend at least Christmas there so you’re very welcome to come with, if you’re so inclined. I wouldn’t want you to spend it alone if that’s not what you want.”

Harry’s face fills with something. It’s subtle, just hiding at the periphery of her eyes and her ears. But the firsts are a tad too wide, too startled, and the latter too red. It looks like panic, slow setting, but no less real. 

“I’m never alone. Liam and Niall are here. And Louis is here too, aren’t you?” she says, addressing Louis directly in the end. It’s the fastest Louis ever heard her speak, words rushing out as if she’s sealing off a breach.

“I mean, I wouldn’t want to impose. I’ve taken advantage of your hospitality for a long time now and if you’re so inclined I’m ready to go,” Louis states, eyes meeting Anne’s to let her know. The mission has been fulfilled with the painting, no matter how much Louis wishes it wasn’t, and Anne deserves to know. She can ask Louis to go without remorse now.

Recognition shines in Anne’s gaze and she nods once in silent acknowledgement of what Louis is telling her.

“Well then…”

“Nonsense.” Harry’s back and neck are straight and rigid, unyielding like the strongest metal. “You’ve been here for less than a month. There’s so much I haven’t shown you yet. And I haven’t mastered the piece, nor have you finished your book.” The silhouette of her chest heaving, backlit by the fireplace, captures Louis’ attention. Her hand twitches, keen to reach out and soothe the wonderful creature trying to keep her just a bit longer. She can’t though, nor can she overstay her welcome now that the painting is done. 

Harry just doesn’t know. Can’t.

“Harry,” she whispers, not knowing what to add to keep her distress at bay while she tries to control her own.

“Harry”, Anne speaks up, tone more calm and loving that Louis ever heard, “Louis will have to return home at some point. But she’s always welcome here if she wants to enjoy some time in Belle-Île again.”

Louis feels laughter curl up in her guts, an ugly and acrid sort of thing. Maybe Anne is being truthful and means what she says. Maybe Louis is allowed to come back here. But as silence settles over the table once more, so does the unacknowledged truth : if she does, Harry won’t be here. No. She’ll be in England, wedded to some stranger. Far from the shores of Belle-Ile, the moors they’ve explored, the sights that remain unseen. Far from home and far from Louis.

Harry’s hand curls in a fist, skin whitening over her knuckles, straining as her eyes and her face close up. She knows it too.

Louis is never coming back.

The mood is somber the following day. Louis expected Harry to retreat to her own space but she surprises her again, spending all of her time with her instead. She doesn’t disappear once, simply stays as if she’s soaking up the last of Louis’ presence. Louis doesn’t mind, tries to do the same. Oddly, it’s now that there’s no need for her to that she lets her eyes take in as much of Harry as they can. She’s not leaving anything to chance. This time, she observes for herself, engraving every line in her mind so they don’t erode with time. 

They don’t speak much, hours spent in silent contemplation and the habits they’ve built out of nothing, like sandcastles. 

Liam and Niall are dimmer too, laughs and smiles not as loud as Louis’ known them to be for just over three weeks. Maybe that’s why they let Harry and Louis go outside the next morning, attempting to have one last walk together.

The cold is not as biting as it's been, as if it too knows that the time is for gentleness amidst the gloom. Harry’s steps are slow, measured. Tempered. She’s tied her scarf around her neck, tied Louis’ around hers too, reaching out and doing so before Louis had time to protest. Not that she would have.

There’s still something that’s clawing at her throat. Despite the warm wool that rests against her, despite the memory of Harry’s fingers grazing her neck, despite the fragility of the distance between them and the overwhelming speed at which goodbye dawns upon them.

She wants to come clean. She wants Harry to know all of her, fully, before having to let her go. A voice inside of her is yelling and kicking, screaming louder than the waves nearby. Saying this might just ruin Harry’s memory of her.

But she’ll know, she reasons. She’ll see the painting, at some point she’ll have to, and she’ll know. And more importantly, she’ll know Louis lied to her. Lied to the very end.

This is not how this needs to end, nor how it should.

She slows her steps to a halt; takes a deep breath.

“Harry, I have to tell you something,” Louis whispers, not wanting to spill anything despite just saying otherwise. 

Harry stopping feels oddly momentous, goes against all the rules of the universe. An unstoppable force, swiftly halted by a few words. She turns her head slowly, not fully facing Louis yet. 

“What is it?”

Her voice is steady, solid. Louder than the surrounding noise despite her barely speaking up. Suddenly Louis is scared. Terrified of what telling Harry means. 

But she cannot continue lying to her by omission; with everything she’s learned, lying and hiding things seems like the worst things she could be doing with the sliver of time she has left with Harry.

“I’ve been lying to you,” she chokes out, the sound earning Harry’s eyes on hers. “Your mother too. I’m not her friend’s daughter, I’ve not come here to enjoy the fresh seaside air or here to just keep you company at all.” She lets out a deep sigh, dreading the words she’s letting slip out. 

“I’ve come here to paint you.” 

At that Harry turns around fully, gaze never leaving Louis’, unwavering and unflinching. Oddly void of any surprise. 

“I know,” Harry responds, causing Louis’ heart to lodge in her throat despite Harry’s slow spreading smirk.

“What,” she barely breathes out. Is it what being punched in the lungs feels like? 

“I’ve known since you arrived. Louis, even if you were actually as subtle as you think, you know me. Do you really think I did not snoop around when you were sick? Do you think hiding your things behind a screen would stop me from finding them?” Harry adds, tone and expression more amused than the situation should require, but Louis cannot focus past the words ‘since you arrived.’ There’s a spark of something in her chest, something that has no right to be there but still is, bright and small but furious. She _knew_. She knew and she didn’t say anything. 

“So,” she starts, throat working on a lump, wet and heavy and impossible to swallow down. “So what you did. The walks, the afternoons. Yesterday. Everything. You were, what, baiting me? Wanted to see how I’d fare for myself? What I’d be willing to do?” Louis asks and she hates how she sounds, unsure and sad and angry. She hates even more how Harry laughs, a loud burst that gets swallowed by the wind but still stings. Eyes crinkled impossibly, teeth white and sharp between her lips, as beautiful as ever if not crueler. 

Something must show on her face because all amusement wipes off of Harry’s expression as soon as she looks back at Louis. She is there all of a sudden, very close, her hand gently raised as if she wants to touch Louis but is not sure she’s allowed. 

“Of course not. Louis, of course not!” she says, quick and rushed and almost hurt. “I knew there was nothing I could do to stop it and I couldn’t hide forever, even if I tried at first. But in the end, I just wanted to enjoy your company. Enjoy you.” She briefly closes her eyes and Louis wants to do the same but she can’t stop staring, eyes roaming over the awe inspiring face standing right in front of her. 

“You’re the most interesting thing - no, person. You’re the most interesting person that ever happened here.” Her brow furrows, frustration clear as day but it’s not directed at Louis. It’s directed at herself. “That ever happened to _me_. I just wanted to know you before it was too late,” Harry finishes off with a blue tinted smile that has Louis gently touching her wrist before holding her hand. 

It feels frozen under her palm, trembling. Still, impossibly fitting with her own. Harry looks at where they hold each other before turning away, eyes losing themselves right where the sea blends with the sky. 

“Thank you for telling me,” she says. 

Louis shakes her head at that.

“I should have done it sooner.” 

“It’s okay,” Harry says as she lowers her gaze, “it doesn’t make that much of a difference. You were honest, in the end.” 

There’s a moment of silence then, both admiring the view, before Harry interrupts the silence with care. 

“Will you show me?”

Louis’ smile is an answer enough, but she wonders, “How do you know it’s done?” 

At that, Harry chuckles a bit more, a merry little sound that feels like a summer breeze in the middle of winter. 

“Well, apart from my mom letting you go now, you wouldn’t have told me if it wasn’t. You’d be too scared I’d go and burn it off,” she explains and Louis is laughing too, bright and surprised. 

Joy finally taking root in a day filled with grey. 

“You’re very right about that.”

Having Harry in her bedroom feels odd. Somewhat wrong, the remnants of a twenty days long protectiveness swarming in Louis’ head, making her almost close the door after herself to keep Harry out. They’d come back to the house in silence, trying their best not to disturb Liam or Niall, or even Anne as they sneaked upstairs. They’d agreed, without any words being spoken, that this moment was theirs and theirs alone. Truth be told, Louis doesn’t even know if she’s supposed or allowed to show Harry. But she’s leaving in a few days. Nothing worse than that can happen to her. To them. 

Still, she feels tension seep up her back, coiling her muscles and raising her shoulders. Harry is looking around, peering at the books laid on the bed, the few pages on the desk stained with ink from when Louis wrote her latest letter to her sisters, the wooden screen hiding Louis’ work from view. Shielding it from Harry’s opinion.

She gulps as Harry rounds it, long fingers clutching to a pane to fold it back, revealing all.

There they are, meeting for the first time.

Louis isn’t more at peace with it now than before. Never has been since Niall’s comments, and not even before. She already knows, despite the beauty of it, that her painting is no match for Harry at all.

Her chest grips at her breath as Harry looks at it. Her gaze is attentive, lingering on some parts. She looks over the hands with what looks like an approving tilt, scans the dress easily. Zeroes in on her own face with a purse of her lips that have Louis’ insides plummeting with dread.

She throws a glance Louis’ way, fast, cutting, before settling back on her mirrored image.

“Is this how you see me then?”

Louis’ throat closes tightly. Still, she hisses out.

“This is not supposed to be about how I see you.”

Harry clucks her tongue at that, startling Louis in how open she is being about her annoyance. She’s seen silent fury and snide remarks, but never that.

“Alright then, I’ll rephrase. Is this what you see when you look at me? Who you see?”

Louis walks up to her, trying to face the portrait that’s been harrowing her. Trying to evaluate it with a gentler approach than the one she’s taken these past days. It’s not its fault if it doesn’t feel like Harry. It’s hers. The woman there looks like her but the glint of her eyes is all wrong, flattened, unmoved by the too easy smile she’s bearing. There’s no twitch, no brows furrowed. Even the dimple lays still.

“No. Not anymore. Maybe at some point it was. But not anymore,” she admits, still avoiding Harry’s searching looks.

Harry hums in answer, a sound that might pass as understanding but is not, not really. She lets a few seconds trickle by, lets the sour air fester slightly, not sure if she should allow it some relief.

“Then why didn’t you change the course it was taking?” 

Louis gulps. That’s the question, isn’t it. Maybe she was so focused on creating a painting worthy of bearing Harry’s likeness that she has forgotten to paint Harry herself, as she really is. Maybe she didn’t want to share the Harry she was getting to know with the world. With a stranger. Maybe she thought not really painting Harry, but an image of her, would somehow protect her from what was bound to happen.

In any case, she failed.

Louis lets her chin drop to her chest, painstakingly trying to hide the wetness of her eyes.

She feels Harry’s hand on her arm, light, resting just for a while; feels them breathing together, staring at the ugly truth.

“Louis, it’s a beautiful painting, you know that. You’re so talented. I’ve never looked more perfect,” Harry says. Desperately trying to bandage the wounds she’s opened wide. Her fingers move, pausing on her shoulder before landing on the back of her neck. She thumbs at the skin there in silent comfort and Louis wants to weep.

“I respectfully disagree,” she sniffles. No tears have escaped yet, a small victory amidst it all.

Harry’s hand presses harder as she laughs, a shy burst of affection that subtly settles Louis’ queasiness. At least she can still make her laugh.

“Do you want to go to the living room? I could read a bit of your book for you. I can’t let you leave before you’ve finished it, I can’t bear the thought of that story leaving this place without proper closure.”

Louis nods, happy to accept Harry’s sweet coaxing.

But as they settle in their usual spots, Harry taking the whole space available on the sofa, unwilling to hide herself anymore, Louis can’t help but let her gaze drift into the flames. 

She can’t disappoint her. She can’t let Harry go with that painting her only tangible memory of Louis. Because every time her eyes will land on it, she’ll think “that woman did not know me at all”. But Louis does. She does and she wants Harry to know, wants the Duke to know, wants every one that’ll ever set eyes on Harry’s portrait to know that Louis knew Harry like they never had, and never will. She wants to make herself proud, to make Harry proud.

To let her go properly.

Harry startles when Louis stands up, her name leaving her lips in a question but Louis’ hand stops her from following her.

“I’ll be right back,” she just says, feet already leading her out of the room, down the few steps leading to the foyer and across it. Loose fist raised, she knocks on Anne’s office, opening the door as Anne’s voice lets her in.

“Hello, Louis, how are things-?”

“Let me redo the painting, please.”

Her voice cuts Anne’s in the rudest way she’s ever been, and really, maybe now is not the time to let that side of her shine the brightest. However, Anne doesn’t seem outraged, merely intrigued.

“You seemed to feel like it was done the other day. Did something happen to it?”

Louis doesn’t know what would convince Anne more, but she’s never been one to openly lie. Honesty has always worked for her, she just hopes it won’t let her down this time.

“It is not my best work. I’d even say I’d be sad to allow it to become one of Harry’s belongings,” is what she goes for. “Or her husband’s,” she adds quickly. “I feel like I can produce a better one now, probably faster too. Obviously it’ll come at no added costs to you as it is-”

Anne’s hand raises mid-air, effectively stopping Louis.

She keeps quiet for a while, visibly mulling the request over. 

“The painting needs to be sent off when I’m back. One of the Duke’s messengers will probably return with me to make sure it travels safely, and I have no intention to have him wait.” Anne stops again, looking over at Louis.

“I have nothing against you trying again, Louis, truly. I just don’t want you to waste your time. I won’t be gone that long, probably less than a month. Are you sure you’ll have it finished by then?”

“I’ll help!”

When Louis turns around, Harry is right there, hands clutching the door and its frame as if she just stumbled forward with the strength of her own voice.

“Harry,” Anne quips, more unsettled than Louis has ever seen. She looks caught red handed, and she technically is, but Harry’s known all along. All pretense is long gone.

“I’ll help Louis, Mother, I’ll pose for her if I need to,” she says breathlessly.

“How do you-”

“I’ve always known about the painting, it’s alright, Mother. I’m not mad. But if Louis wants to try again, this time I want to help.” 

She’s righting herself up, hands sliding against the wood before joining in front of her. Her chin is high, regal. Green eyes ablaze.

“Please let me help,” she pleads one last time.

Silence falls again and despite knowing Anne is the one who should have her attention now, Louis can’t help but stare at Harry. This beautiful, beautiful woman who’s willing to give up the arms on something she’s fought against for so long. Willing to fight to keep Louis here just a little longer.

“Very well,” Anne finally says, “you can try again. But it needs to be done when I’m back. Understood?”

“Yes Ma’am,” Louis acquiesces, “thank you.”

Anne’s smile is still kind and bright, but it’s no match for the one Harry lets out.

It’s a small sun, a beam of joy; dimples deeper than ever, eyes disappearing in mirth.

Louis heart beats faster at the sight, lips widening on their own. Their eyes meet and Louis swears it is summer again.

Goodbyes can wait.


	4. IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Playlist for this chapter](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3YlOsw4zucdJFx5SVt5Ck5?si=u44er3x9T12v6oJ3-3k13Q)

The next days are a flurry of activity, everyone busy preparing for Anne's departure. Niall and her had taken a day and a half to make sure everything on the property would be taken care of in Anne’s absence and that Niall’s cousin would be around if anything needed immediate care. Packing was a small affair, Anne taking care of it mostly by herself. When Niall and Liam had asked if one of them was to accompany her, she’d merely smiled before stating that the house would need them more than she did. 

“And my brother’s staff will be quite alright for a few weeks, I’m sure. Do not worry, ladies.”

Niall had grumbled something about them being no match for what Niall and Liam could provide which had amused Anne to no end, but still, that had been the end of that.

This time, a small carriage is available to take Anne to the port. The journey to Brighton will last a while, a little less than a week. She has planned to stay for at least ten days, celebrating Christmas and the New Year in her beloved homeland and her visible cheer is contagious. 

When the coachman knocks on the front door in the early hours of Sunday, everything is ready and everyone is up to wish Anne a safe journey. She waves at everyone with warmth in her eyes, steps back to embrace Harry once more, secret words tucked right by her ear before leaving for good.

There’s an eerie silence when they come back inside. It’s not unsettling, not really; more pondering, heavy with consideration. As if the air itself is questioning what is allowed now that the Lady of the house is gone.

They all look at each other and, without a word, head for the kitchen. This time, however, Harry gently guides Niall and Liam on their chairs before potting about. With a start, Louis realises she’s preparing breakfast.

“I’ll make tea,” she offers, not waiting for Harry to acquiesce before springing into action. 

They fit together almost seamlessly, moving around the space as if they’re dancing. There are only a few hitches, hips bumping, Louis’ hands sliding up Harry’s arm to keep her standing. Pressing once just because she can. There’s a give to Harry’s body, as if she’s slouching into her, resting against her at the touch, but she steps away before she can truly appreciate it.

They set everything on the table under Niall’s amused but thankful gaze. It’s simple, the rest of a pie Liam had cooked earlier in the week, some marmalade jars and a mostly dried loaf of bread. Still, it’s filling and tasty, bodies and mind nurtured.

“Do you want to paint today?” Harry asks, breaking the comfortable silence that had been going on so far.

It’s still odd, having Harry acknowledge that part of Louis at all. Even more so when it’s to ask if Louis wants to. To bring desire back into this process which had been drained of it all in the past days, replaced with the dread to finish this one particular piece. As she takes a look into herself, she realises there’s none left. Only excitement to have Harry accept her doing this, excitement to share it with her. Nervousness, too, at the idea that she is baring what she loves the most to someone she feels so much for. 

So, after a small breath she draws in, she nods, lets herself smile at Harry, trying to let everything show on her face.

“Yes, I’d like to, if that’s okay.”

Harry smiles back.

“More than.”

When the afternoon comes, they sit in the living room, like many times before. However, the setting is the only thing that’s familiar. That and Harry’s eyes on her.

“No painting?”

Harry’s voice is higher than usual, filled with youth and curiosity. She’s looking attentively at what Louis brought with her.

“No, not yet. I want to try to sketch you again first.”

She’s gathered her pad and bits of charcoal on a wooden slate, conscious to not get any on the striped upholstery. She takes a piece between her fingers, let it rest on the paper. Breathes out; looks up then immediately down

“You’re staring,” she says, tone accusatory.

“Sorry,” Harry quips up, “I just. You look very focused.” There’s wonder in her voice, like she’s discovering something exquisite and not Louis’ habits at work.

“Well, I am,” Louis answers, mock haughtiness colouring her words, “stop distracting me.” Harry laughs, once, a sharp and loud and wonderful burst of sound that immediately draws back Louis’ attention and eyes. Harry looks startled too, hand already covering her mouth as if she’s trying to capture the noise back. But it’s too late. It’s out, all its brightness sparkling in the air.

She’s already flushing a lovely crimson, spreading as far as the eye can see. It’s Louis’ turn to be fascinated, unable to tear her gaze away.

“Sorry,” Harry whispers from behind her fingers, words heartbreakingly muffled.

Louis shakes her head immediately, wanting to tear Harry’s hand away and replace it with her mouth, kissing her until she can catch some of her sunshine, until she can taste it exploding on her tongue. Until Harry dissolves into giggles, Louis fizzing out with her.

“Never apologize for that,” she says instead, fingers clutching tightly the wooden slate, nails catching on the thick paper. “You’re -” she starts, sighs, corrects herself, “that was lovely.”

Bashfulness spreads all over Harry’s cheeks, lowers her lids and lashes as her dimples appear in a slow shift.

“Thank you.”

Louis nods and starts sketching. Harry watches her at first, peering up, considering. It’s as if she is waiting for something but Louis takes some time to figure out what for.

“You don’t have to pose or be really still. Right now, I just want to draw you as you are. You can do anything you want,” she reassures her and Harry’s shoulders drop immediately, an invisible tension released from her limbs.

“I wasn’t sure,” she says, hands already picking her sewing work. It’s almost done, a beautiful field of flowers embroidered on a handkerchief. It reminds Louis of the moors right outside of the windows, dots of rainbows amidst the green. She tilts her head towards it, fingers already shaping out Harry’s own on paper.

“It’s really beautiful, Harry.”

It earns her a genuine smile and a thanks.

“See, you’re an artist too,” she adds as she buffs a line with the tip of her index, “you just don’t use paint.” 

Harry’s hand stops right where she’s driving the needle into cotton, her thumb coming to stroke the threads carefully.

“I’ve never thought about it that way,” she says, slowly turning towards Louis. “I quite like the sound of that!”

Harry’s smile is the next thing on Louis’ drawings.

She is still reluctant to let Harry look at them as they get ready for dinner. There are attempts, little glances thrown her way and hands that look twitchy, but she stops them by keeping them close to her chest, face towards her.

“No peeking,” she states just to be sure and for a second Harry looks like she’s about to stick her tongue out or pout or something just as ridiculous and overwhelmingly charming. She reins it in though, choosing to walk past Louis with a deliberate sniff and an arched brow.

“Alright then,” she says, half whine and mock threat, sparking a fit of laughter to nestle in Louis’ throat. 

“Don’t be like that, I’ll show you more finished ones. And the real thing. Those are just practice sketches. Warm-ups,” Louis coaxes, aware of the way she’s indulging Harry in the worst way. Playing right into her hand, and doing so willingly. 

Harry sniffs again, but this time with a grin and twinkly eyes. She hums, still sounding petulant.

“They’re just not worthy of your gaze,” Louis adds, fully caught up with her now as they reach their bedrooms’ floor. Harry’s grin widens as her body turns towards Louis’, leaning. 

“Alright, but you have to promise,” she whispers, face suddenly closer to Louis as she raises her hand, pinky up and offered to her. 

Endeared, she curls her own against it.

“I promise,” she says. Harry’s mouth twitches up quickly as he pulls their joined hands to her, letting her lips graze Louis’ skin in a small kiss. 

“Good.”

She drops them, heading towards her room without turning back, leaving Louis’s rabbiting heart and burning limbs behind.

Dinner is a quiet but cheerful affair. No one offers to set up the dining room, all four of them naturally migrating to the kitchen; the room a beacon of warmth in the manor that stands alone in the frosty fields. Louis and Harry set the table, Liam serves the cider and Niall prepares hearty _crèpes au blé noir_ filled with cheese, egg and ham. The fragrant savoury taste lingers on Louis’ tongue as long as the shared laughter, meeting the alcohol in a heady mix. Shyness, tension, hesitation : they’re all gone, unneeded and unwanted in this small haven, this pocket of safety in the middle of winter.

After cleaning every dish, polishing every drink and wiping all the stains away from the wooden table, they part ways in the stairs, Niall and Liam retiring to their rooms on the highest floor.

Louis goes for a quick wash in the bathroom, unwilling to go through the fuss of taking a bath so late. They haven’t exercised in a while, a sponge and warm water more than enough to wash the fresh sweat of the day away. She dries her face with a small cloth, dabbing at the skin gently, half focused on her movement. In fact, it’s the mirror who has her attention, and the image it reflects.

There’s a flush to her skin, an undeniable glint in her eyes she hasn’t seen in a while, or maybe ever. At least as far as she can remember. Some strands are brushing the top of her shoulders, straying from the lazy ponytail she’d sported all day, barely-there waves gathered low despite their shorter length. She looks as if she’s been running or swimming in a lake. 

Exhilarated, fresh, renewed. 

Happy.

Her right hand comes up to her chin, pokes her jaw tentatively, unsure of what it’s looking for. Feeling out.

When she gets out, she heads straight to her room, feet fast and soft on the parquet. They barely make any sound or cause a creak now that she’s accustomed herself with the ins and outs of the wood, the planks that give in too easily to the weight of a body. Despite all of that, Harry’s door still opens once she passes it. Her face appears in the doorway, eyes shining in the dark as well as her teeth.

“Goodnight Louis,” she lets out, voice low and inviting, spilling words into the night like they’re secrets to keep, intricate spells that cast intimacy. “Sleep tight.”

It stops her in her tracks as much as the peck on her hand had. But Louis’ never been one to admit defeat, nor give less than she gets. So she leans on the frame, hands resting on it to let the tips of her fingers inside of Harry’s room. No closer, no further.

“Sweet dreams,” she grins, peering up at Harry, feeling her eyes crinkles at Harry’s visible surprise. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Harry,” she murmurs, hands and body already retreating, eager to come back.

Harry’s door closes long minutes after her own.

“If you want to, we could explore a bit more today. There are still things I want to show you. I think you might like them.”

Harry’s silhouette is stark in the late morning, her body leaning to the right, hesitant but determined all at once. She looks like she’s trying to convince Louis, when she really doesn’t need to.

“Lead the way, then,” Louis says, already heading to the mudroom to pick up coats and scarves. She takes Harry’s, sliding it over her shoulders and neck without thinking twice, only pausing when Harry squeezes her wrist.

“Thank you,” she smiles, eyes crinkling delightfully, like drawing paper.

Louis feels some heat blooming on her cheeks, turning to the stairs already to hide what she still can. Still, she replies without faltering.

“My pleasure.”

Louis finally sees some of the hamlets of the island. They’re as small as she expected, bundles of houses facing the cold winds of winter that swipe over the moors. The fields they pass are bare, covered with frost in a crust that protects the earth underneath, and lets her rest for the new seedings to come. It glitters under the sun, crunching beneath their feet in a joyous lilt. Once or twice, Louis steps forcefully on small patches of ice on the beaten paths, loving the way it cracks under her weight, the way Harry chuckles at her antics. She joins her at some point, feet almost slipping but she finds her balance back, arms in front of her immediately before she recovers. 

“Alright?” Louis asks still, checking as much for Harry’s wellbeing than for hers.

Harry beams wide and lets another giggle out, and that is answer enough. 

“All good,” she reassures, already moving forward.

Louis doesn’t feel forced to speak, now less than ever. It’s in the quiet moments that she notices it, notices how Harry’s presence by her side quells the urge that usually gnaws at her insides. The inherent need to busy her mind, to fill the silence, to make others at ease with her words. There, in the space that breathes between their shadows moving along the edge of the land, the only need there is the one for her to just be. Coexist in the joy of inhaling the same air, together, souls nestled against one another. It feels right, strolling through the crackling grass and the pebbles, weaving between stone walls polished with time and salty winds.

“That way,” Harry points, leading them back to open space. After a while, a building appears, slowly rising behind a hill in the distance.

It’s a chapel, frame slight and shivering, standing by the edge of a cliff. The contours cut against the skyline, grey meeting blue to shape a narrow space, enough to fit two or three dozens of people at most. 

They take their time to reach it, gait almost slowing to a crawl, allowing Louis to appreciate the humble cross above the door, carved in the rugged stone. A few tombstones lay beside it, surrounded by a small wall delimiting the space reserved for the dead.

Harry doesn’t hesitate before pushing the heavy door, allowing them to enter. Louis is surprised to find colour, three stained glass windows giving life to the otherwise modest edifice. Simple wooden benches make up two columns of seating, altar empty of any objects or decoration. Two tall candelabras stand on each side of it, melted wax showing how often the wicks have been lit and the fire snuffed out again.

Louis steps towards it, then to one of the windows. Mary is veiled, hands joined in prayer, dressed in white and blue. Metal bent in harmonious curves that trace her face as easily as coal would. She lets her fingertips follow the lines, nails meeting glass from time to time, slipping against it like she would on ice. But this one is coloured, translucid. Paints her hand in a multitude of hues. She can’t help but notice the cobwebs, the dust lingering all over the tiles, the moss growing between the stones, nature reclaiming the building as her own, letting the moor swallow it steadily.

When she turns, Harry is standing on the other side of the aisle, an approximative mirror of Louis’ own image. Her gaze is lost on the enamel, perhaps on what she can see behind it.

Her voice cuts the silence with an eerie gentleness.

“Do you fear God, Louis?”

Magnetically drawn, Louis steps forth. Waits for the quiet to settle again before disrupting its course.

“I don’t. I don’t see why I should.” She looks over at the altar again, the walls, the decay slowly setting despite what must be fervent efforts to keep it at bay, to banish it away. “I think there are things worse to fear in life than God.” 

Harry’s eyes land on her, inquisitive, untethered.

“Like what?”

Louis breathes in, ponders the question for a second, trying to gather her thoughts to the best of her ability, to help Harry settle whatever interrogations are roaming her mind.

“People, most of the time. People can hurt you more than God can,” she starts, watching Harry’s mouth twitch, the corners of her lips tilting down. “Loss. Loss can be fearsome, devastating with all it takes.” 

There’s a beat of silence loud enough that Louis can hear Harry swallowing down, wetting her mouth before speaking again.

“Anything else?”

Louis thinks. Hesitates to spill out the final one. With one look at Harry, the words come out.

“Love.”

Harry’s eyes widen immediately, green drowning in white.

“Love?” she repeats, incredulity clear in her voice.

“Love,” Louis confirms, glancing at her feet to avoid watching Harry’s face. “Love can hurt more than people can. I feel like that’s something to fear. When you love someone, something, you give it power to wield. Power over you.”

From the corner of her eyes, she can see Harry’s shuffling forwards, closer to her. She stops quickly though, leaving miles to swell between them.

“But there’s bound to be some good that love can bring. Joy. Hope. Strength. If you fear it, aren’t you shutting yourself away from those too?”

Louis smiles gently, amused by the newfound conviction shining through Harry’s voice.

“I didn’t say I was renouncing it. Even if you fear something, that doesn’t mean you have to avoid it, that you can’t embrace it. I’d even say that it’s important that you do exactly that.”

Harry looks relieved, brow smoothing even if the curious twinkle in her eyes hasn’t died down. 

“Good then,” she states, words final.

Louis feels herself smirk, eyes half closed.

“Good,” she repeats, reassuring.

They leave soon after, legs back to treading in the wildflowers. Mind reflecting over Anne’s departure, Louis thinks the atmosphere is open enough that her remark might be safe to share.

“You didn’t seem upset that your mom wouldn’t spend Christmas and the new year with you.” 

She glances at Harry’s face, trying to evaluate the impact of her words. Harry’s gaze is focused on the ground in front of her, no sign of upset showing. Instead, just consideration.

“Did you think it was odd of me?” is what she says, slightly avoiding the unspoken question. Louis keeps hope that she will eventually answer it.

“Odd, maybe. But not in a bad way. With what I’ve…. sensed between you two, I thought you’d be more displeased.”

Harry grins openly this time, not as careful now that she knows Louis bears no judgement.

“I love my mother. I know sometimes it doesn’t seem that way. We’ve had our disagreements in the past, and even more so recently. About the way things are, about what she’s helping shape for my future.” She pauses, eyes landing on the horizon, on the sea that’s quietly keeping them company.

“I understand why she does it and her reasoning. I understand that… I mean, it’s not like we have a choice. Me, Gemma. We can’t work, I mean, I wouldn’t know how to, and we are meant to marry and carry out names and titles. Have parties. See people.”

She sighs, lets out a small chuckle, glancing over at Louis once.

“I’m sure you’ve noticed, but I agree with none of it.”

The statement has Louis’ lips stretching in a bittersweet smile.

“I have.”

Harry nods once, as if in thanks.

“I don’t intend to fight with her more than I already have. And I don’t intend on making her life more complicated. But I’ll say that not having her here as a reminder of what’s to come is… not a chore.”

The calculated understatement has Louis cackling, a bright spark of laughter that rises up to meet the clouds. Harry joins in, their voices breathing life back into the frozen-still landscape.

When they come back home, they find Niall sitting at the table, sewing up a tear in a pretty apron with daisies-embroidered hems.

“This is adorable,” Louis comments as she goes to wash her hands in the bucket by the window. She brushes them clean, spending some time trying to pry out some dirt from under the nail of her ring finger.

“A gift from this lady over here,” Niall answers, pointing to Harry with her head. Louis feels the now familiar warmth in her belly settling in comfortably, almost purring with endearment. “I’m sorry Harry, I nicked it earlier with my scissors.”

Harry is already shaking her head, visibly uncomfortable with the apologies.

“It’s okay, it’s an apron, it's bound to receive some tough love with age. I don’t even know how you managed to keep it so safe for so long. If you want, I can try to hide the tear with something. A daisy or another flower, or whatever you like,” she offers instead.

“Oh! Thank you, I’ll think of something,” Niall replies excitedly before going back to her work.

They decide to keep each other company, Louis fetching her tools to keep sketching. This time, she draws both Niall and Harry, trying to capture the serene bubble they’re in, talking about what they could do in the following days. It’s been too long since Niall had the opportunity to go out, restlessness slowly creeping in from within, and the chores feel lighter now that the authority of the house is gone. No matter how nice Anne is, there’ll always be an acute awareness of the power she holds over Niall and Liam. Harry has some, but she doesn’t use it, almost ashamed, trying to oppose the inherent imbalance of their statuses with small acts when she can. But it’s her kinship with them both that really makes a discernible difference.

After an hour has passed, the distinct sound of the front door closing resonates in the mostly silent manor. Liam’s steps echoes, coming closer with each passing second, stopping first in the mudroom before leading her to the kitchen.

“Ah, good! I wasn’t sure you’d be back already,” she starts, coming up to check the teapot, finding it still halfway filled. She smiles, a happy little thing that compliments her glowing cheeks and glinting eyes. Louis can feel herself smirk, keeping a tight leash on the desire to glance at Niall and see the knowing look she’s bound to find on her face.

After pouring herself a cup, Liam sits, body almost thrumming with what seems to be contained excitement. 

“Would you ladies like to go out tomorrow evening? Well, night, really,” she corrects, eyes narrowed as she figures out the details of what she’s asking. Not that the difference of time matters much.

They all look at each other: Niall’s eyebrows raised, already eager, Louis’ answering grin visible. Harry. Harry is more reserved, gaze curious but cautious, a fine line creasing her forehead. She’s the one who asks.

“What for?”

“Well, it’s the 21st,” Liam simply says, causing Niall to gasp.

“Already? I didn’t realise.”

“That doesn’t tell us what for,” tries Louis, still confused as to what’s going on.

Niall stares at her with disbelief etched on every single feature.

“It’s the solstice. The shortest day, the longest night. It’s -”

“Yule,” Liam finishes, grin wide and cheerful.

“Yule,” Niall acquiesces.

Louis still doesn’t really understand, a bit shy to ask for more information. She debates questioning them more when Harry speaks up.

“Someone invited you? Invited us?”

Her tone verges on dubious, and Louis still doesn’t know why.

“Zayn asked if we would come. I mean, I’ve been a few times and Niall too, I don’t see why we couldn’t.”

“I haven’t,” Harry quips back, not unkindly. Simply noting a fact, laying it open, sounding vulnerable as she does it. “Louis neither,” she adds, “and she’s a stranger - no offence - I don’t want to make anyone uncomfortable.”

“Zayn offered. She wouldn’t if the invitation didn’t extend to you, or to Louis.”

Harry’s thoughts are muddled. Louis can see it, clear as day, written all over the cloudiness of her eyes or the pensive tilt of her mouth. She scrunches her nose once, turning to the side and busying herself by cleaning a leftover glass from the morning.

“I suppose we could go,” is what she ends up saying and both Liam and Niall smile eagerly. Whatever they’re excited for, Louis doesn’t know, but she is sure of one thing: it’s something she’s never encountered before.

There’s a vibration in the air when Louis wakes up, something almost palpable. It lays dormant in the twist of Niall’s content smile when Louis comes down to eat, the choppiness of Liam’s movement as she takes care of the chores faster than usual. She doesn’t see Harry for a while, waiting and waiting in the kitchen to no avail. Liam puts her out of her misery. 

“Would you like to take this to her?” she asks, a plate full of _tartines_ and a large cup of herbal infusion in her hands. “If she’s taking so long, she’ll be in her study.”

Louis can feel herself fishmouthing, trying to come up with a reason why she can’t without acknowledging openly that Harry… well, Harry doesn’t let her in there.

It turns out that she doesn’t need to, Liam already adding “I think it’ll actually help if it’s you, Louis.”

She can’t protest: Liam doesn’t leave room for discussion, gently but insistently pushing the items in her hands. When Louis finally relents and takes a hold of them, she nods once with a pleased smile.

“Good! Now off you go.”

Louis stands awkwardly, unsure. She only moves once Liam shoos her with the wave of a hand, chuckle spilling from her lips and eyes. She climbs the stairs gingerly, trying to balance everything without spillage. The door is almost on the steps themselves, the tiniest of landing allowing Louis to pause before precariously rasping her knuckles on the door.

A chair drags on the floor, footsteps audible on the other side of the wood before they’re joined by the metal twist of the handle.

Harry’s beautiful face appears in the doorframe, greyed over by the morning sun.

“Louis,” she says, features immediately painted with hues of surprise. She doesn’t look angry or displeased by her presence. It’s already a victory.

“I thought - I mean Liam thought you might be hungry, since you haven’t come down yet,” Louis explains, raising her full hands as a peace offering, “Since we’ll have to dine early, and we might not have time for a big meal, you might… want something now?”

She’s trying her best not to sound imposing, nor prying. It seems to work well enough if Harry’s small grin is to be trusted. She opens the door wide, stepping ever so slightly to the side.

“Would you like to come in?” she offers, her confident expression betrayed by the slightest tremor in the corner of her eye and the plushness of her bottom lip caught right between her teeth.

Louis’ step forward is answer enough, Harry moving to let her in fully.

The room is small and mostly round, walls close in a way that feels more comforting that threatening. Light streams in from slim openings, more arrow-slits than windows despite the layer of protective glass that keeps the cold outside. A tiny chimney rests against the only flat wall, its mantle covered, like everything else in the room, with books. There are piles of them, towers really. Mismatched and different sizes, lines of gold flashing between bulks of green velvet and chocolate leather. Louis recognizes some titles, others feel completely unfamiliar.

There’s a desk in the middle of the room, right on top of a thick carpet with pale green and pink roses circling in its center. Single candle holders are bundled in one of its corners, right by an array of scattered papers and an inkpot.

Louis is speechless, but not for long.

“You’re telling me, all these times, I could have borrowed one of these,” she jokes, humbled and delighted to be allowed in a place that feels so loved, so lived in, so _Harry’s_. More so than any room she’s been in so far, this is where her heart beats the most.

Harry looks happy, eye crinkles and dimples out to play.

“You like it,” she asks as if she still has doubts despite Louis’ reaction, her open admiration. As if she’s doubting herself.

Louis just steps further inside, setting the cup and plate on an empty space on the desk before allowing herself to twirl and take the room in even more.

She stops to face Harry, trying to convey in her tone how sincere she is.

“I love it.”

Harry’s smile widens, tilting her head as if the corners of her mouth are suddenly too heavy with joy.

“Good.”

She comes nearer, reaching out to grab one of the garnished bread Louis brought.

“Thank you for this,” she says, taking a big bite out of it and chewing happily, left cheek bunching with the working of her jaw. Louis finds the sight dreadfully endearing.

“I mean, it’s really Liam you should thank. But you’re welcome,” she replies, pride toned down to the best of her abilities.

“You did all the carrying,” Harry counters, voice filled with mischief and Louis just laughs and laughs, too charmed to do anything else.

“And what a chore that was.”

“Hey,” Harry chides, half-heartedly swatting Louis’ arm, palm resting on it for a beat before it retreats. Fingertips burning on Louis’ skin.

She clears her throat.

“So this is the place where you hide when you want some time alone?”

Harry simply nods in her tea, eyes peering up from her cup to meet Louis’ before dipping back. She hums, as if to reinforce her answer, creating ripples in the tea.

“Among others,” she murmurs, secrets spilled in water.

“It suits you, I think.”

Harry’s focus is on her again.

“How so?”

“It feels warm, messy, full of things cared for” Louis says, eyes fleetingly taking in the room once more, floating from one item to the other. She’s silent as she catalogues them. On a shelf, there’s a small sculpture of a woman pouring something out of a jar. On another, a collection of shells - razor clam and periwinkle and a large conch with pretty lines. There’s a vase on the mantle with dried flowers, thistles and lavender shaded in purples and blues. Over it, a tall mirror, golden edge flaking off, a crack starting to spread from the bottom right corner.

“I mean it’s lovely. Beautiful, really.”

Harry’s gaze is already on her when Louis’ lands on her. She’s still munching, but slower, mind obviously busying itself over something that Louis has missed.

“What about you,” Harry inquires, voice more serious now that it was moments ago. “Would you tell me where you hide?”

Louis pretends to think over the question, but only for mere seconds. 

“You say that as if this isn’t your home. You know every room I could be in,” she comments, not willing to let Harry know that yes, she would. That she’d be eager to. That she’d love for Harry to tell her all about what she’s found in the abandoned room, all the forgotten treasures protected by dust and time.

Harry chews silently a bit more, looking at Louis as if to evaluate what she’s asking.

“I mean, I have an idea, yes. But that doesn’t mean that I’m allowed to look for you when you’re gone. To impose. That’s not something I’d like, so I don’t want to assume.”

“Well, know that unless I specifically ask you not to, or say so when you find me, you’re always welcome to. Look for me, that is,” Louis states and Harry’s nods once, dimples etching themselves slowly at the corners of her mouth.

“Understood. Thank you.”

“I can show you now,” Louis continues, noting that the plate and cup are now empty.

“I’d like that.” 

They step out of the room, Louis closing the door with care and reverence before inviting Harry to climb up with a small bow that earns her a giggle. They ascend, Harry’s arm slides against Louis’, sleeves brushing but never separating. As it is, Louis presses closer.

They cross the small hallway past the maids’ rooms, reaching the door that Louis has become so familiar with. Harry is right behind her, and this time, when her hand grips the handle, she feels trepidation grow inside her. The good kind.

The door clicks open and they step inside, everything as quiet and undisturbed as ever.

“It’s been a while since I’ve been in here,” Harry says, an admission that almost sounds regretful, swelling and pulsing in the silence. Louis watches her as she notices the places where the white sheets are lifted - all Louis’ doing. She glances at Louis, an amused smile firmly in place.

“I see someone has been snooping.”

“Look who’s talking,” Louis chuckles, feet leading her to the armchair in the corner.

“Someone has even found themselves a little spot, hmm?” Harry’s eyes are narrowed, gleeful mischief all over her face, far from the pensive expression she had minutes ago.

“Very comfortable at that,” Louis confirms, hands patting the armrests before they clutch its ends with mock confidence.

“Looks like it,” Harry says, voice low, only one side of her mouth up now. The white of her teeth appears then, catching her lip again in an unconscious grip. 

The silence feels heavy, loaded, and Louis’ insides are suddenly swarming with a pleasant tension she doesn’t know how to release. Thunder rolling and tearing at the sky, but no lightning yet. She swings her foot reflexively, startling when it bumps against the dressing cabinet. Harry’s eyes immediately settle on it. She releases her lips, eyes dulling, the thinnest of veil draping over her irises. 

She walks over to it, runs her index over the intricate details carved in the wood.

“That used to be my father’s things. He died when I was young. Pneumonia,” she states simply, a hint of lingering emotion colouring her voice. It’s faded with time, scarred over and well healed if any wound was there in the first place. “I hardly remember, to be honest.”

“I wondered,” Louis says, shrugging when Harry looks at her inquisitively. “I opened it, so I did wonder.”

Harry lets out a cackle at that, another one of those loud bursts that slam into Louis and rattle her to the core with how much she adores that sound, adores the mouth that lets it out into the world. She dissolves into laughter as well, unable to not join Harry.

“I take back everything I thought, you might be as bad as me,” Harry says, chuckles slowly trickling down, the sober air she bore completely gone.

“I mean, I never pretended otherwise. I’m an honest girl, me,” Louis replies with an easy grin and a raise of her brow.

Harry is still smiling when she turns the key in the lock, pulling the cabinet open, hands resting along the edges of its doors. Her eyes focus on what she sees inside, a glint of something sparking as they peruse.

“I’ve looked at them before,” she says, tone not quite flat. There’s something there, in her gaze and her voice, digging from the ground up, trying to see the light. “I used to come here and look at them, but I haven’t in a while.”

Louis just stays silent, waiting.

“I mean, they’re beautiful clothes,” Harry continues, this time looking over at Louis with a tentative expression on her face.

Louis nods, smiles, happy to reassure Harry in whatever way she can.

“They undoubtedly are.” 

Harry sighs at that, relief clear but tarnished with something that’s still clawing up. Wariness, apprehension. Confusion.

“I always wondered what it’d feel like,” she spills out after a moment, hands coming to touch the fabric with the tip of her fingers. They graze it, catching on the golden buttons Louis had noticed too, stroking the labels carefully, the fastenings of the shirt. The inseams of trousers.

“What it’d feel like?” Louis coaxes out gently, slowly standing up to stand by Harry’s side. She lets her head rest on the door, peering up at Harry’s face with all the attention in the world.

“To wear them,” Harry whispers, the thought finally out in the open, breathing fresh air with expanding lungs.

Louis hums, peering at the clothes, at Harry’s hands on them.

“I’ve worn trousers a few times,” she says in the space between them, sewing it in the air for Harry to catch if she wants to.

She does.

“You have?” Her disbelief is plain as day and Louis’ heart aches with how much it weighs on her limbs, solid and shivering. 

“I have. I think the first time I was in our atelier, so caught up in my painting that I forgot I wasn’t… well, appropriately dressed. And someone knocked on the front door so I just grabbed what was nearby and that was my father’s painting clothes.”

Harry’s throat works around a swallow, stare layered with too many things for Louis to decipher. She lets them float away from her, unwilling to break the moment to try to catch them.

“It definitely was comfortable,” she smiles, “but me, I mean, I don’t really care about what I dress myself with. Skirts or not, I don’t mind.” There’s a twitch in Harry’s mouth, another in her nose; Louis continues. “But I know some people who do. Who mind what they wear, who prefer dresses over trousers or trousers over dresses.” The twitches come back, stronger this time.

“What I mean is that, if you want, you could try them on. See if you like them.” 

Harry looks at the clothes once more, palm resting against a heavy coat, square shoulder pads marking the masculine cut. She shakes her head once.

“I’m not sure I should. I mean, I’ve never seen anyone around me wearing something they weren’t supposed to. Not for tea and lunches and not for parties and balls. And never at home either,” she just says, wetness sticking to the words and Louis aches a bit more. “So… I don’t think it’s normal. That I wonder. That I want to… try. So, I don’t think I should.” Louis doesn’t think before resting her hand on the small of Harry’s back, thumb stroking over the waistline of her dress in a gesture of comfort.

“Well, take from it what you will, but when you’re with me, ‘should’ doesn’t matter.”

She can hear her voice waver when she speaks, trying really hard not to let everything that’s been building up in her chest erupt from her when this, right here, is absolutely not about her. It probably seeps out a bit, still. She just prays it doesn’t overshadow what she means. That whatever has kept Harry from trying things out, finding what she likes, finding herself, has no harbour within Louis. 

She’s too busy thinking, trying to focus on the details in the embroidered wool to notice the way Harry looks at her, the way she’s beheld.

After a minute, Louis takes her hand away.

“Come on, we need to get ready for tonight,” she urges softly, Harry following without any argument or complaint. 

It feels later than it really is when all four of them come out of the manor. Dusk has already settled, letting the blue hour reign freely over the world, blending sea and sky into deep indigo. Liam had dug heavy coats and heavier shawls out from somewhere. They smell a little musty with disuse but their warmth is more than enough to protect from the chill, everyone bundled in soft layers. Still, tonight is not the coldest Louis has been, her morning walk to the village still holding the title for now. Chatter is light, Liam and Niall talking in merry voices that spin and twirl around them. Louis joins in from time to time, excited to spend some time outside as a foursome even though she still doesn’t know much more about what they’re about to do than the previous day. Niall has only explained that it is a ceremony, a cultural and spiritual practice deeply rooted in the area, woven in the ground itself and passed on from one generation to another. It only fuels Louis’ curiosity further, always eager to discover things unknown, to broaden her horizons and so far, no experience has as much as this one.

Harry is still quiet, wistful. Has been since they’d left the abandoned room behind, responding whenever addressed but not looking entirely present, as if lost in contemplation. Her gaze, however, strengthens with intensity sometimes, as if she’s coming close to untying the knots of thoughts in her mind.

The journey is as long as ever, Louis thankful for the reprieve it gives, the openness of the land they’re treading on filling her heart with dreams of infinite, boundless freedom. The laughter of her friends and the presence of Harry by her side only reinforce the thrum in her veins, the urge to open her arms wide, let herself be taken by the wind. To allow her head to fall back and stare up at the waking stars that blink and sway in the streaming night. She feels herself slow down slightly, hands splaying into emptiness on each side of her, eyes peering up. She never learned astronomy, could not pick a constellation from another. Still, the stars watch over her just the same, unwavering guardians with gleaming smiles.

“Louis, you’re alright?” Harry asks. She’s standing just a few meters after her, her body barely discernible in the shadows. Still, the silhouette of her tugs at Louis’ insides, a sweet ache booming in her body, making her stumble forward without thinking.

“Alright,” she answers, feet leading her to Harry before they take off once again, together.

The waves carry them to the village, a gentle song they welcome with open hearts.

They finally reach its limits, sparse lights guiding them on the way, making sure they’re not lost. Eeriness has settled all around, blanketing over earth and stone alike, humidity painting their breaths in the air. Liam’s voice cuts through the silence, exhaling more clear smoke.

“Zayn should still be waiting for us.”

They make their way through the buildings, shadows splaying over them, stretching to the point of no return. Liam’s steps are assured, know the way even in the dark, not falling off course once. The hinges of the apothecary’s overhanging sign creaks when they gather beneath it, Niall barely knocking before she pushes the door open. A comfortable warmth welcomes them, chasing away the cold coming in with them. 

Zayn appears in the doorway, hooded shawl firmly placed on her shoulders. Her eyes roam over them, pausing once on each of their faces. A respectful nod for Harry, an amused grin for Niall, a gentler one for Louis. But Louis feels herself melt when Zayn’s gaze lands on Liam, a tender expression spreading all over her being, body and features alike. If she’d seen Zayn’s loveliness before, nothing compares to the unfurling of affection she’s witnessing right now. She takes a peek at Liam, curious at what she’ll see and sure enough, Liam looks more radiant than ever, already moving forward to greet Zayn.

“Hi,” Zayn simply says, only addressing Liam before she turns to the rest of them, “hello.”

They return the acknowledgement, Zayn eyes settling on Louis once more.

“I’d been told you hadn’t left yet. I’m happy to see I wasn’t lied to,” she smirks, as easy as ever.

“Glad to be of service,” Louis replies, earning a few added lines on the sides of Zayn’s eyes.

“Should we go then?” Niall presses on. She’s bouncing on her heels, trying to tame her impatience very unsuccessfully. It only fuels the merriness settled in Louis’ bones so she nods, joining her by the door in a silent signal to get a move on.

Once outside, Zayn takes the lead, their group heading closer and closer to the sea. They walk along the small port, following the coast for a few minutes before a light appears in the bend of the path. It flickers, a large beacon drawing them closer to the beach it’s settled on. As soon as they reach the sand, Zayn takes off her shoes, hand resting on Liam’s arm to balance herself safely.

They all follow suit wordlessly, Louis already burying her toes in the fine grains. They’re moist, sticking more to her skin than they did a few weeks before now that the night has fallen. It doesn’t smother her giddiness in the slightest.

Figures stand around the bonfire, dozens and dozens of silhouettes lit up by the flames. As they walk closer, Louis thinks she can pick up familiar faces. The butcher’s wife and the baker’s daughter. Two teenagers she’d see in passing on her way to Zayn’s last time. Others she can’t quite place. Niall and Liam are already quickening their pace, greeting the large gathering and going up to some people to say a few words. Zayn, Harry and Louis take their time to join them, unhurried. Glancing at Harry, Louis realizes her walls are halfway up already, brick and mortar on the ground somewhere behind them, freshly used.

She reaches out without thinking, palm brushing against Harry’s bicep to check in, make sure nothing is wrong.

“Harry, alright?”

There’s presence in her eyes, a brick taken out to peek right from the hole left behind.

“Alright,” Harry replies but the reassurance doesn’t sound quite right. She’s ready to fill it up again as soon as she can. Louis turns her body towards her fully, other hand resting on Harry in a perfect mirror of the first one.

“You know, if you want to, we can go back home. Spend a quiet evening in, you and I. Or you alone if that’s what you prefer. Whatever you want, love.” Murmurs softly given to the night, offers she never thought she’d make.

Harry’s eyes widen a bit before the wall comes down fully, stones chipped away with careful words. Harry ducks her head, arm turning to grip Louis’, perfect twins.

When she speaks, she addresses the ground.

“You’re too kind with me.”

Louis’ hands move, searching, restless. Up to her shoulders, pressing down. But it doesn’t feel right, no really. So they aim further, sliding slowly to her wrist, thumbing at her palms, at the lines etched there, fortune-engraved skin.

“No, I’m definitely not”, she presses on, fingers digging in achingly sweet.

A few seconds trickle, carried by the wind and swept away far into the horizon.

“Let’s do this,” Harry whispers, head coming up before she takes Louis’ hand fully in her own and walks towards the fire.

No one pays attention to them as they join the group, everyone talking to each other with open, happy expressions. Louis can’t help but notice that there are no men, smaller children and an older pair of teenage siblings the only exceptions. They’re deep in conversation with two old women, large rocks and pieces of driftwood making do as seating arrangements.

Harry stops walking once they reach the small crowd. Even if there’s still an air of wariness and reticence to her, Louis sees right through it. It’s covering something up, an apprehension, a shyness. The same one Louis had felt when sharing her art for the first time. A small piece, barely larger than a tray, that made its debut in a salon. Oils on linen. Standing there, in the middle of a beautiful room and brushing elbows with well-known and acclaimed artists, she had looked the same way Harry does right now.

She lets her fingers twine with Harry’s, eyes searching through the crowd for their companions. Once she spots Niall, she tilts her head at Harry, showing her the way.

“Here you are,” Niall welcomes them, perfectly fitting with the rest of the crowd. “Let me introduce you. Marie, I think you’ve seen Louis before but just to be sure, that’s Louis right here. And this is Harry, from the house.”

Marie is the one they’d bought some of the best tasting vegetables in their last errand together. Louis recognises her hair, deep black mixed with beautiful greys and whites to create the most wonderful tones. Her face is lined with many years, some speaking of determination, others of laughter. Louis would have not forgotten it.

They talk easily about how the village is faring, how December has changed the daily life, adding logs into the fires and layers on bodies. About how the latest of the root vegetables needed to be taken out before the frost fully took the ground, and sorting out seeds was getting too tedious for Marie’s tired eyes. She inquires about life at the manor too, asks about how they’re doing without the Lady of the house gone. Not making sure they’re alright, that she doesn’t seem to doubt one bit, looking over Niall with mischief in her eyes, but wondering about what they’re up to.

Liam and Zayn join them when Louis starts talking about Paris, pulling in tow the pair of twins and two middle aged women, their small group growing. In fact, everyone seems to gather again, guiding each other to sit down with no spoken agreement. That way, they create a large circle around the fire, only left open where it’s closer to the sea. Bodies facing the warmth, covered back to the elements that seemed to have softened tonight, conversations die down.

Two women stand up from the circle. An elder, spine arched and curved outwards, steps steadily near the flames. A younger woman, blond hair curling right past the end of her cape, sets a gentle gaze on her predecessor. Then, one of the teenagers sits up too, taking the hand of the small girl sitting next to her. More follow until nine of them close a dotted line around the pyre. All of them hold a piece of something in their hand, shaped like a disk, coloured like wood. All look different, different tints glinting in the glow of the flames.

The elder speaks.

“This fire was gifted by the sea, every piece of it brought from the waves and washed ashore. For this, we thank you. We will now add to it our humble offerings to mark today's celebration of the longest night, the first day of Yule. The Oak King triumphs again, and the Holly King retreats slowly. To the cycle that begins again, we fuel you.”

Each of the nine people throws their disk into the fire, names being called as they do so. Louis only catches a few, the ones whispered closest to her : hazel, ash and birch. All of them clap once, hands stretching in the air as they separate. Glancing at Harry, Louis finds her visibly fascinated by what’s going on, gaze fixed on the figures by the pyre, flickering flames reflecting in her eyes, green completely gone.

Voices erupt once more, conversations born anew but in ushered tones. A few women stand up, fetching a large metal container, round enough to look like a cauldron but much smaller than that. Louis hadn’t noticed it when she arrived or sat down right on the opposite side of the fire. Now, however, Marie and a few others make the rounds of their circle, offering to each person a cup that’s plunged into it, coming out heavy with a liquid that everyone drinks with thanks. 

“What is that?” she asks Niall, only slightly turning her head to speak as inconspicuously as possible. She doesn’t want to be offensive by asking the wrong question, but her friend is a safe bet. The worst that could happen would be her teasing Louis, but even that seems unlikely. They all know she’s new to these customs. Still, she can feel the energy simmering in the air, as if rising from the flames themselves and seeping into the fabric of life itself.

“Wassail,” Niall says, voice as low as Louis, “it’s only part of it. The elders have prepared it for us, to nurture us and take care of us, to provide. By sharing it all together, we wish for each other and ourselves that we may thrive throughout winter and that the spring brings new, successful seeding.”

Louis hums in understanding, watching the cup coming closer and closer to their side.

“Tastes mostly like warm, spiced cider if that's what you were worried about,” Niall grins, eyes glinting with amusement as she looks at Louis. 

Louis blinks once, twice, before meeting her eyes.

“I wasn’t particularly cautious about the taste, mostly curious. And with everything you made me drink before, I’m sure this will be on the good side.”

Niall just laughs, low and happy, earning her a glance and smile from Zayn and Liam, the pair turned into the other’s body to murmur.

Harry, for her part, seems to only be half-listening. She’s still focused on the people moving closer to them, eyes fleeting from time to time to look at other people, at the flames, at the sea.

Louis doesn’t want to disturb her and lets her be.

They all drink the beverage when it comes to them, and thank Marie for serving them. Niall was right: it’s warm, apple and alcohol and sugar coating Louis’ tongue pleasantly before they retreat, leaving room for the spices to linger. It pools in her belly pleasantly, filling her with a sense of comfort, of care that spreads throughout her body and plasters a content smile on her face.

The others react similarly, crinkled eyes and grin welcoming her when she opens her eyes. She hadn’t realised she’d closed them. When she twists on the log to address Harry, she finds her resting a hand on her stomach.

“Alright?”

Harry looks up, glowing eyes happily lit up.

“Alright,” she nods, thigh twitching when Louis’ own presses against it, impossibly tethered to her presence.

The singing comes later, when everyone has drunk and conversations have lulled down, and when the fire needs tending and one of them breaks the circle to add more driftwood. The voices rise into the air, joining the smoke and the shimmer of heat above the flames. Rise like specks of gold, sparks alighting the sky. Louis doesn’t know any words, and neither does Harry from the way she remains silent, but she can hear her hum sometimes. The faintest sounds breathed past her lips, resonating. So she hums too, watching over her friends, over the women around her, then out to the sea and the waves that come to die on the sand.

She doesn’t know how long has passed before a few people start walking to the sea, many undressing almost completely before entering the freezing water. When Niall stands, Louis chuckles.

“You’re really swimming when it’s this cold? Wasn’t it you that kept me from walking in the cold and in the rain?”

Niall shrugs easily, shawl already marking her seating spot.

“It’s different. Tonight is special. The world is being reborn in stillness as the longest night is passing through,” she starts, belt coming undone before being carefully rolled. “We’re cleaning ourselves here, in the dark, submerging ourselves in water so that what needs to be left behind floats away.” She pauses, looks at Louis before starting again, “and what has grown in the dark of winter can be brought to light, left pure and clear and worthy of being presented, spoken aloud and shared.”

“Oh.”

No one speaks for a few seconds as Niall finishes undressing, left only in her long undershirt.

“Though, I won’t disagree. It’s pretty fucking cold,” she swears before running off hurriedly into the water where a few others are already bathing.

Louis is still laughing when there’s a rustle by her side. Harry’s standing up, removing her clothes carefully just like Niall moments ago. Louis can feel her eyes widen slightly before she looks away quickly, meeting Zayn’s amused gaze.

She’s highly tempted to make a rude gesture but she dampens the urge by pondering whether the buoyancy she’s been feeling all night would push her enough to meet the bone-chilling sea. 

When Harry leaves, brushing an “I’ll be back,” into Louis' hair, she simply rises to follow her. 

She lets herself watch, guard the being that has now reached the smallest waves, dipping toes into the water before marching on. She can’t help but grin at Harry’s stance now, the way she’s hugging herself as if to keep the cold at bay. Hands tight on her elbows, body visibly shivering, slowly sinking into darkness.

Louis reaches the water when Harry is almost shoulder deep, strands of hair stuck to her undershirt like black seaweed. Louis lifts her skirts slowly, letting herself walk a bit more, breathing in deep and rolling her eyes with distaste when her feet meet the sea. It’s even colder than she thought, pins and needles burying in her skin to reach the bone and freeze it still. 

“Fuck’s sake,” she whispers, taking a few steps more, skirts hitched higher still. When she looks out again, only Harry’s head is visible. It disappears suddenly as she completely sinks, head bobbing up again after long seconds, hair entirely drenched.

She doesn’t call out to her. She just stands there, witnessing. Guarding a moment that feels far too fragile and precious to let it escape her sight. Harry’s head is tilted back, tip of the nose to the stars, dark curls slicked back and glistening in the moonlight. In an attempt to mirror her, try and comprehend what she feels, Louis does the same. Shin-deep in the sea, waves lapping at her skin in a rhythmic touch, she contemplates the sky. They look just like they did on the cliff when the night was young and filled with possibility. But they don’t feel quite the same. There’s pulsation, an aura around each of them that moves in time with the sea and the wind. One that resonates within her, tunes her into the music of everything. Making it, her, ring right. It almost feels like she’s swaying to it, flat of her feet shifting in the deep sand, water gently swishing in response.

“Louis.”

Harry is closer now, moon draping over her like a lover. There’s this urge again, the urge to reach out; touch the wet undershirt, fully translucent now. Feel the crispness of salted curls between her fingers, the chilled skin. Warm her up, no matter how damp she’d get.

“Aren’t you cold?” Harry asks, her lips darker than Louis’ ever seen. Purple like a bruise, a plum to bite into.

Louis shudders, her grip on her skirts slipping just enough that the inner layers dips into the sea.

“Can’t be more than you,” she replies, eyes still catching onto every single thing she can, forbidding herself to look past Harry’s clavicles.

Harry steps closer. She’s staring too. Staring at Louis’ neck, her lips, the hollow of her throat and the line right where her bodice begins. Then at her hands, knuckles white and skin pulled over them as thin as Harry’s undershirt. She gets closer still, enough that both graze each other, leaving moistness on Louis’ phalanges.

Louis feels her breath die in her lungs, still and waiting. Quivering when one of Harry’s fingers runs along her own, trails of longing left behind. She doesn’t move when Harry’s face touches hers, cheek pressed against cheek, searing heat bubbling underneath the frost.

“Come on, we need to warm up,” Harry presses in her ear before she walks to the shore, water splashing apart to let her through.

It takes a few minutes for Louis to calm down, to quieten the roar in her guts, the syrupy and slick sensation that has settled there, itching to reach out. A few inhales, a few exhales. She treads through the waves, making her way back to the beach shakily, feet not finding balance in the sand that slips under her. Once she’s finally near the fire, she looks up to dive right back into heat. Behind the flames, closer to the fire than when they were seated before, Harry’s watching her. The cotton is more opaque in some places, cloth and body dried by the flames that chase the water away. 

Louis ducks her head in an impossible effort to compose herself. She finds her place next to Liam and Zayn, seeing from the corner of her eyes Niall coming back from her own swim, joining Harry by the pyre.

“Not too cold?”

“What?” Louis says, focusing back onto Liam.

“I asked if you weren’t too cold,” she grins, gesturing at Louis’ sandy toes.

“Oh no, I’m good. I didn’t go for the full swim, no clothes were taken off. Smart move if you ask me, water was freezing.”

From the other side of Liam, Zayn squints her eyes ever so slightly, the corner of her lips quipping up.

“Sure seemed like it,” she says and Louis doesn’t know why but it feels pointed. She feels warmth in her cheeks, one not due to the closeness of the fire.

Suddenly, there’s a body by her side, knees coming up for arms to rest on them and now Harry’s skin feels nicely dry. Her scent is stronger, closer, the hair on her legs glinting in the light.

“Better now?” Louis asks and Harry nods despite the goosebumps on her forearms, her hands. Louis tuts, reaching out behind her to grab Harry’s shawl, wrapping it around her shoulders. After some consideration, she lifts her own, wordlessly beckoning Harry to come closer. She does, nestling herself into Louis’ side, head naturally coming to rest on her shoulder.

After letting out a deep sigh, she nods again, smaller this time.

“Much better.”

Niall sits down soon after, easing into their conversation like she hadn’t missed a bit of it. They keep talking until dawn breaks, the palest yellow bleeding into the sky after what seems like both forever and no time at all has passed. Several people have already left, goodbyes and good wishes trickling by. Liam and Zayn go for a walk, wanting to watch the sunrise from the cliff. 

“They’re cute,” Louis states, watching their silhouette retreating in the distance.

“They are,” Niall agrees easily, face adorned with the same smile she wears when Liam talks about Zayn back home. Amused, trusting. Happy.

Harry’s sleepy voice barely breaks the silence.

“They? You - you think so?”

Louis twists her head to peer at the woman, now back in her clothes, still pressed against her.

“Of course? You don’t?”

Harry’s nods so eagerly Louis is afraid she’s about to break her spine.

“I do! I do I just-”

Louis waits for a beat, looking over at Niall who’s seemingly ignoring them. Louis would be fooled if her face wasn’t so obviously turned away, her ear now closer to them than before.

“I thought. I mean, I didn’t think…”

Whatever Harry thought, she’s not voicing it out loud. Louis doesn’t want to press, but curiosity is eating her alive. Did Harry think she’d be against it?

“I mean, it was obvious. Even if I managed to miss it before, Zayn asking me to give Liam a bouquet of her favourite flowers for no reason would have won me over,” she adds, trying to prompt something, nudge the thought out of Harry’s brain and into the open.

Somehow, it works.

“Oh,” Harry says, eyes set on the sand, on where her toes dig into it, trying very hard to hide. “I thought - those were for Liam?”

Louis hears a rustling sound coming from Niall, a breath cut short, but she refuses to look at anything else but Harry right now.

“Of course they were. Who else would they be for?”

The morning sun chooses that moment to peek over the edge of the world. Pale orange stretches on the sea, the shore, the sand. It lands on the pink of Harry’s cheek to highlight it beautifully, to complement the sea glass in her eyes.

She clears her throat, glances at Louis once before diving in again.

“For you.”

_Oh._

“They weren’t,” Louis says even though Harry knows now but she needs to be sure, to reassert this truth. A groove slowly etches itself onto Harry’s cheek, kissing the corner of her lips. 

“Alright.”

Grey clouds gather above them when they walk back from the beach. They drop Zayn off at her lodge, right by the apothecary. It’s a tender affair, hugs and fond looks exchanged between them all. Louis notices Zayn holding Liam’s hand briefly and, oddly, whispering something to Harry right before they leave with the promise to all see each other very soon.

The journey to the manor is even quieter, sun barely peeking out to graze their skin. Niall falls into an odd silence, but one look at her content expression quickly reassures Louis that all is well with her friend. Liam seems more pensive, but that comes as no surprise. If Louis had any doubt that Zayn’s affection wasn’t returned, the entire night had made it blatantly clear that it was, in fact, very much so. 

Harry. Harry is quiet too. She’s walking slower and slower, the weight of her thoughts dragging her behind, too heavy to carry on for much longer. There’s still some time before they arrive home but the distance between them grows with each second. 

“I’m gonna wait for Harry. Don’t wait up, we’ll join you at the house.”

Liam and Niall nod, happy to carry forth, but not before ensuring Louis they’ll have the fires ready when they reach the house.

Louis doesn’t walk back to Harry. She just waits for her, watching as Niall and Liam’s figures slowly disappear behind the slope of the cliffs.

“You didn’t have to wait for me. It’s still cold, you might catch something again if you stay out too long.”

Harry almost looks offended when Louis turns around to face her. Indignant, stubborn. Her bottom lip jutting out in a pout she’d like to kiss away.

“Harry, we’ve spent the whole night outside. You actually bathed. If I am to catch anything, I probably already have.”

Instead of gracing her with an answer, Harry starts off huffing and puffing, making Louis’ heart squeeze with delight. There’s no way she can quell the chuckle bubbling out of her, so she lets it out, earning herself a dark glare from pretty eyes.

“There’s nothing funny about this. You should take care of yourself more,” Harry says more than petulantly. She’s staring right in front of her now, gait faster than it was moments ago when she was still trailing behind them. Now it’s Louis who’s playing catch up, shoes crunching against the frosted grass.

“Well, you seem to be doing a very good job of that for me.”

She hears Harry mumble something but it’s completely lost to her as something falls on her cheek, straight from the sky. A tiny, icy kiss, blooming stark on her skin. 

She lets out a surprised breath, hands reflexively opening in front of her, palm up to catch more. Sure enough, more of them drift softly in the air, landing on her to melt away almost immediately. 

Snowflakes.

“Harry.” It’s barely a whisper, surely too gentle and low to be heard and yet Harry stops, immediately turning back to check on her. She doesn’t seem to understand yet, the white specks too sparse to be noticed immediately but then more fall down, clouds steadily sprinkling them above their heads.

“Snow,” she says. A fact, simple and undeniable and making her smile so wide it splits her face in half.

Harry just looks dumbfounded, gaze going from Louis’ hand to her face then to the heavens, disbelief etched on every line of her beautiful face.

Harry steps closer, peering up at Louis’ fingers as she lifts them to her eyes, trying to see the tiny branches of impossible flowers.

“It’s just - it hasn’t. It’s been so long since it snowed. Years. Why is it snowing?”

Louis can’t help but giggle at Harry’s questioning, feeling her eyes crinkle like old paper, the rasp of her voice filling the air. She looks over at the horizon, snow blurring the line between water and clouds ever further, dotting it with white. She can feel the flakes catching on her hair, bursts of cold touching her head, her face. Not enough to gather and stick to themselves, but enough to last longer now, disappearing only after a second has passed.

“I haven’t seen snow in way, way too long,” she acknowledges, hands coming back out, trying to catch more flakes. She feels so young suddenly, playing with the clouds. She sticks her tongue out, eyes closed, and feels a flake land, moist on moist. It dissolves immediately and she closes her mouth.

“It’s beautiful.”

“I really want to kiss you.”

Louis opens her eyes immediately. They know the way to Harry’s, could meet them in the dark. They’re so still, no tempest rising behind them, no cracks in the sea glass. Nothing but a reserved hope, a serenity. The acceptance of a truth hidden for too long. Grown in the dark and finally shared.

Louis breathes out.

“You can.” 

That seems to take Harry by surprise. She jerks her head up, Louis just realising how hunched over she’d been, making herself small, as unnoticeable as she physically could. As far as Louis is concerned, she’ll never succeed.

“I - what?” Harry stutters but still, she stumbles forward, ever so slightly closer as if she’s afraid Louis will take it back, snatch her chance from the air where it’s floating now.

She won’t, though.

“I said,” she starts, stepping forward too. Meeting Harry halfway, always. “You can.”

“Oh.”

Silence falls as steadily as the snow, blanketing over all : the sound of the waves, the cries of seagulls and the whistle of the wind. The thick silence of winter, where, underneath it all, life starts anew.

“You don’t have to if-”

Harry’s lips cut Louis’ sentence. Meet it halfway, really, plucking words from her mouth to welcome them into her own. They’re chapped, plushness roughed up by the weather and yet nothing has ever been as tender to Louis. There’s no hesitation, no rush. Louis feels Harry’s fingers graze her collar bones, tingles running along her skin, and she lets herself touch too, hands splaying on Harry’s jaw, her neck. Deepening the kiss, savouring the taste she’s hungered for. Her thumb comes to the corner of Harry’s lips, resting, as a swipe of her tongue forces a rumbling whine out of Harry’s throat. Harry’s hands press harder, sliding to her nape, twining in the hair she finds along the way.

Louis retreats slowly, pressing her lips against Harry’s gently, trying to spell out how cherished she is with her mouth agape and silent. There’re more sounds, ones less famished. Happy ones, dizzy ones. Louis hums in answers, nuzzling Harry’s nose with her own before Harry leans in, letting their foreheads touch.

She doesn’t want to open her eyes and yet, she knows she needs this sight forever. When she does, she lets herself take in Harry’s blush, the dark fan of her lashes, the breath she exhales that mixes with her own. Everything blurred, unfocused with how close they are, bound in intimacy.

Harry closes the distance again, a simple peck that lingers on, chased by another before leaving for good. 

She takes Louis’ hand before she starts walking.

The house is deliciously warm when they come through the front door, Niall and Liam making good on their promise. The contrasting heat has Louis sniffling, clothes suddenly too heavy and wet, awfully cumbersome.

“I’m gonna change, I’ll meet you downstairs,” she tells Harry. It’s more of a question, really, with how high her voice lifts at the end, curling around an inquisitive punctuation.

Harry just nods, painfully and obviously looking away before heading to the kitchen, not glancing back once. Louis tries to calm down the immediate twist of her guts, palm flat on her lower stomach as if she could physically push it back this way. 

The few minutes of their journey were spent in silence, no shared looks or holding hands. Nothing. A nothing worse than the silence Louis had grown used to, now that she knows what Harry sounds like when she’s being kissed.

There’s an ugly apprehension when she’s dressing, making her limbs tremble and quake. Everything crumbling with the possibility of regrets.

When she comes to the kitchen only to find Liam and Niall, she almost sobs, clutching every piece of herself together tight between her fingernails.

“Was Harry here?” she manages to let out. Something in Liam’s face shows that she’s not so successful at hiding, a line of worry anchored deep between her brows.

“She was moments ago but she left pretty fast. Said she wasn’t hungry,” Niall answers, unknowingly twisting the knife deeper in the sea salt wound.

“Did something happen?” Liam asks, as careful as ever. She’s stopped cutting the vegetables she was busy with, blade hovering above the board, apprehensive to resume its work.

“No, nothing,” Louis shrugs, the simple gesture demanding more energy and deceit than she’s capable of right now. “Wouldn’t you like to sleep the day off? We didn’t rest much.”

“That’s planned, don’t worry. Just needed to light back the fires and prepare some food for when we’re hungry. But then, I don’t think any of us has much to do. I mean apart from you and the portrait. So, we can rest then.”

Niall seems excited about the prospect, unsurprisingly, but the dread that fills Louis at the mention of the portrait keeps her from finding any humour in it. She just nods emptily, trying to find an excuse to leave.

“I’m gonna - I’m actually gonna try to nap, maybe. I’ll eat later.”

She doesn’t wait for an answer before heading to the mudroom. She doesn’t want to pass by Harry’s study or Harry’s room or anywhere she’s decided to hide this time in order to reach her bed and wallow.

Except that when she emerges from the lower stairs, there’s a trickle of sound from the foyer. From the ballroom. A bundle of notes that fills the air, making it swell with hope and lighten the weight on Louis’ shoulders. The tiles turn into wood, planks creaking beneath her feet, no matter how gently, how slowly she walks. 

There she is, sitting right in front of the piano, back slightly curved outwards while her right-hand plays a few keys off-beat. Did Louis look like that when Harry found her?

There’s plenty of room next to her on the piano stool, as if she was waiting for Louis to join her. So she does, it’s only polite.

Harry’s face is lowered, curtains of hair hiding it from view. Once again, Louis is flying blind.

“I thought you were avoiding me.”

Harry’s fingers stop on two keys, the jarring sound startling her. When she looks up, Harry’s green, green eyes are already on her.

“No. I wouldn’t. Why would I do that?” she says adamantly, fiercely. Chin jutted out in defiance, as if she’s ready to face whatever Louis throws her way.

“I mean the - outside? The kiss?” Louis stammers, suddenly unsure of what she should say, of how she read Harry this time.

Pink blooms on Harry’s cheeks, furiously dashing in the early light. Yet, her expression remains the same.

“Now why would I avoid you for that?” she asks and Louis doesn’t know, really.

“I don’t know, I just - when I came down, you weren’t there. I thought you got scared.” She doesn’t like admitting it, body shifting on the stool and eyes onto the keys, footing and feelings unsteady.

Harry’s fingertip twitches on a key, killing the note just after letting it out. She clears her throat.

“You make me very nervous.”

Louis’ throat works around a lump, mouth suddenly filled with too much saliva.

“In a bad way?”

Harry immediately shakes her head, hand coming to rest on Louis’ own.

“In the best way.”

Louis lets out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding on to, a flush of emotions spreading like wildfire, setting sparklers off in her lungs and brain and chest.

“That’s good.”

Harry’s bright cackle breaks the stilted, paper thick tension between them, soon joined by Louis’ own delighted, elated chuckles. She doesn’t really know what to say, what not to say. But maybe it doesn’t really matter when the brush of Harry’s thumb on the back of her hand feels so good and right and brilliant.

“That it is,” Harry finally breathes out, eyes bright and merry, glinting with something Louis had often seen but never recognised.

Affection.

“I just,” she starts, feeling like a blubbering mess,but she needs to voice everything out. “I just didn’t want to force anything on you. To take something you were not willing to give. I was afraid I’d done that earlier.”

Harry sobers up ever so slightly but, somehow, Louis’ confession prompts her to press closer, to twine her fingers until they’re perfectly slotted between Louis’ own.

“When you accepted this job, when my mother talked to you about me and my marriage, did she tell you anything about my… let’s say reticence towards any romantic interest?”

Louis nods. 

Harry’ lips quip up before opening again. 

“I’ve never been interested in anyone who has approached me before. Anyone. To be fair, ‘anyone’ was mostly men. But these men, no matter who they were, they always went about it the same way. They’d barely talk to me, or interact with me. They’d look at me like I’m a thing, a pretty one but still a thing. Even friends, when we grew older, they’d end up doing the same. Then they’d go and see my mom, asking if they were allowed to court me and she’d say yes but me? I never wanted them to. Do you know why?”

This time, Louis shakes her head, unable to look away from Harry’s stare. It never wavers, never stray away from Louis’ own. Fixed, unperturbed. Serene.

“All these men, they always wanted to take something from me. Something I’m not willing to give them. Which is me. You, Louis, you don't. You give me your time, consideration. You give me attention, compassion. You look at _me_ , and you see _me_ , and you reassure _me_. You tell me it’s okay to be myself, in every way there is and everything that means. You do all that without asking for anything. And somehow, somehow you're surprised I would want to do the same in return. To get to know you, to get to cherish what I discover of you. To look at you and see so much that moves me, so much I want to be allowed to look at for the rest of my life. That, that’s what makes me want to give myself to you.” 

She pauses, wiping away the tears gathered at the corners of Louis’ eyes with her thumbs. 

Louis can’t bear to look at her, to feel her so close, the thump of her heartbeat a gentle pulse against her skin. She closes her eyes.

“So,” Harry resumes, relentless in her slow killing, “my question is this : will you allow me to?”

Louis breathes out.

“To what?” she slurs, an incredulous laugh threatening to burst out at any occasion.

She feels Harry’s smile against her cheek, her lips as chapped as before and still impossibly soft.

“To cherish you. To show you why.”

Louis can’t help but nod, laughter seeping through, crackling behind her teeth as she opens her eyes to lose herself into green.

“Alright, I will.”

Harry beams so wide her eyes disappear into nothing, dimples right beneath Louis’ fingers as their faces meet.

“Good.”


	5. V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Playlist for this chapter](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/055MiUVVLXT643SpWVQnyA?si=lemJZyFsQDC4K3-K4bPpJg)

The way they fall together is striking. 

Striking with how easy it feels, how right, how meant to be. There’s no adjustment needed, not even when Harry’s fingers rest atop Louis’ at dinner as if they’d always been there, every day and minute of the past month. Neither Liam nor Niall say anything, although Louis notices a small smirk playing on their lips. It’s the kind that’s soft, almost relieved, and if Louis had any doubts before, they’re completely wiped away as she gently slots her fingers and Harry’s tightly together. Secured.

They all talk as much as they’re used to, laugh as loud as they’re used to. There’s a kind of glow that radiates from Liam all day, dimming slowly as the hours pass and Louis wonders if she looks the same, if Harry does. So she glances at her and no, she doesn’t, not really. Nothing is out of place, nor extraordinary. Except for how certain she is now that she can stare to her heart’s content. That feels extraordinary. 

At some point Harry catches her watching, her only answer a tiny movement of her lip and a soft squeeze on her hand.

That’s extraordinary.

Yet, there are moments where everything floats, left there, up in the air. When the night has advanced and Louis has yawned more than three times in the past minutes, she doesn’t know when to retire to her room, doesn’t know if she should wait for Harry or if she should invite her to her bedroom. Doesn’t even know what she’d prefer. And what does Harry want?

She yawns again.

“Tired? Want to go to bed?” Harry says, words curling in her hair where she presses them.

Louis nods, too sleepy and wound up to give any more thought to the matter. She just stands, waves everyone goodnight and retreats to the stairs, voices fading away as she climbs. 

She’s already changed when the knocks come on her door, thin nightshirt doing very little to hide her body. Somehow, she still tenses with a sense of surprise at seeing Harry there, hand still raised, body shifting from one feet to the other.

“Um -” Harry starts before pausing completely. In the silence, Louis suddenly feels oddly flustered with Harry standing there, right on the other side of her door, after the day’s events. She doesn’t know what to do, or what she’s allowed to, even though moments ago she was still holding Harry’s hand. The truth hasn’t settled in the sand quite yet.

“I… I wanted to say goodnight,” Harry says, interrupting Louis’ thoughts. Looking at her, Louis knows she’s not the only one feeling unsure. Bashful, even. Or at least, not the only one seeking reassurance, or to reassure.

So, she makes it obvious she’s only teasing when she says :

“but we’ve already said goodnight, Harry.”

There’s a hand on her waist, resting against her hip. A wide smile on her face, slowly matched on Harry’s own.

“Properly,” Harry replies, “we haven’t said goodnight properly.”

The hand barely moves up, another cradling her head, and Harry moves impossibly closer until their noses touch.

“Goodnight,” she presses against Louis’ grin, in between kisses that taste wine-sweet.

Long minutes later, the door closes.

The snow has layered during the night. It reflects the sunlight, diffuses it in the seating room where Harry has convinced Louis to set her painting station for the day. It’s out in the open and Louis is unable to hide now. However, under Harry’s tender gaze, she realises she might not want to. Going back to the shadows, to paint gliding on canvas in the middle of the night, would mean missing this. Harry in a rich burgundy dress, hands crossed on her lap, wrists covered by a thin layer of _plumetis_ ruffles. The fabric almost shimmers, contrasting wonderfully with Harry’s skin. The dusty pink of her lips, the tint of her cheeks. Her eyes, still staring at Louis as she paints.

She’d almost seemed awkward when she’d come down dressed like this, fingers tugging at the sleeves and head ducked to avoid meeting Louis’ gaze. Part uncertain, part uncomfortable. But once she’d faced her apprehension, whatever emotion or turmoil she’d seen in Louis at the sight of her had completely cleared it. Or, if not, had made the trouble worthwhile. The sleeves were left undisturbed, Harry’s chin and head held high, almost tilted proudly as she kept watching Louis, silently asking ‘don’t stop looking at me that way. Don’t stop looking at me at all’.

The expression has grown soft since they’ve settled down by the windows. Louis tries to lose herself in the details of what she sees, to disconnect them from the reality that it’s Harry they belong to. 

They stay silent for a long while.

On the morning of the 24th, Louis doesn’t remember it’s her birthday.

Somehow, her life on Belle-Île has changed her perception of time so thoroughly that she feels as if she just arrived just as much as if she’d always lived here. She completely forgets about the date, about being away from her family and maybe it’s because she’s found other people to care for here too.

She only realises late in the afternoon, with the sun setting in the ball room as she and Harry visit melodies she’s heard hundreds of times but never quite like this. Sprinkled in the air to dance with their giggles. When Harry shifts against her, head coming to rest on her shoulder, that’s when she remembers and, surprised, she lets it out.

“It’s my birthday today.”

Harry sits up immediately.

“What? But you - you never told me! We should do something special, what would you want to do?”

She’s so frazzled her hair is bouncing with every jerky movement she makes, only stilling when Louis presses her forehead to her temple, kisses her cheek right in its center, feeling the apple of it under her lips.

“I’m good, this, right here, is perfect.”

She hears more than sees Harry sigh, feel her bones moving against her skin as she mumbles something. She hums, prompting a repeat.

“We should at least celebrate with something,” Harry enunciates, crystal clear in the otherwise silent room. Louis reaches out, fingers finding the key again to play something short, sweet. Something as lovely as the feel of Harry’s skin under her own. She drifts away, back straightening slowly as Harry curls back into her.

“I won’t oppose a nice dinner or time spent with you and the girls. But I genuinely am good, Harry. This has been, so far, a wonderful day, a happy birthday, and I’m sure it’ll end just the same.”

Another sigh. When she glances down, she sees the jut of Harry’s mouth, the beginning of a pout. Still, she looks more placated than seconds ago.

“Alright,” she agrees, more easily than what Louis expected.

Louis gets her wish. Liam makes almost as much of a fuss as Harry did, immediately racking her brain to find the most lavish dinner they can have. Louis tames her ideas down the best she can, all under Niall’s boisterous laugh and teasing. She only succeeds once she reminds everyone that they have already a large meal planned to celebrate Christmas and that they can’t splurge two days in a row. Still, there’s a hint of challenge on Niall’s face when she peeks at her. She chooses not to rise to it.

The evening is as sweet as the day’s been, hours lost in the bottom of their cups, thrice empty and refilled just as much. They all retire to the living room for once, wordlessly making the most of the freedom that’s been given by Anne’s absence. Louis settles on what she now thinks as Harry’s sofa, soon joined by the lady herself. Harry doesn’t even pretend to sit, no. She lays down, upper body resting against Louis who just turns to her and lets her in. They settle quietly, Louis’ arms draped over Harry’s front while she nurses her drink. Liam takes some time to relax in her seat; Niall has no trouble doing so. When the fire has turned to embers, they part ways, Niall and Liam leaving Harry and Louis on their floor to reach their own. 

Harry hesitates, one hand over the door handle of her room, the other still carefully held in Louis’ palm.

“Would you…” she starts, fingers twitching around the metal. “Would you like me to sleep with you tonight? By your side?”

There’s a sharp inhale of air, the cold that surrounds them making its way into Louis’ lungs while the rest of her grows impossibly hot.

“I - uhm - I mean, I would really like that. But I don’t want you to ask because you feel like you have to, I don’t -”

“Louis, I wouldn’t ask if I felt like I had to,” Harry replies, both hands on Louis now. “Is that a yes, then?”

Louis nods once, any trembling kept at bay for now. Harry’s mouth stretches with a poorly hidden smile, a pleased glint visible even as her eyes crinkle. She pecks Louis’ lips once hurriedly before opening her door. 

“I’ll join you in a minute,” she calls before closing it, leaving Louis in the hallway to burn with bewilderment and nervous anticipation.

She walks into her room quickly, allowing the door to stay ajar in open invitation. As her eyes set on her room, she wonders if there’s anything to hide. Harry’s been there now, more than once. She’s seen the disarray and bits and bobs left behind with no intention to be put away as soon as they’d been used. Louis had paid it no mind before but now, however, she feels like she should straighten them out, make everything more presentable. Another voice in her head keeps her from doing so, turns her attention to even more pressing matters. Like whether she’s supposed to undress or not, to change into her undershirt or to wait there, fully clothed.

She unties her blouse in a hurry, stepping behind the wooden screen to untie the links of her skirts, leaving a bundle of cotton at her feet. She pats down the top of the screen blindly, fingers latching onto her nightshirt that she barely wears anyway but naked is not an option right now. She’s not ready to share a bed with Harry bare-skinned.

“Louis?”

She peeks from behind the wood, eyes landing on Harry doing the same from outside.

“You - you can come in. I was just changing. I hope that’s alright?”

Harry’s nightly garment is answer enough, a thin long shirt that stops just after her knees, enough buttons undone that she’s allowed the sight of Harry’s collar bones, shiny with perspiration despite the temperature.

“Of course.”

She comes out of hiding, joining Harry in the middle of the room. The atmosphere feels heavy, urging her to whisper, to shelter this moment from being acknowledged by the rest of the world.

She doesn’t know she’s raising her hands before it enters her line of vision. It’s wavering like a flame, close to trembling, but manages to end its course on Harry’s jaw, thumb against her cheek.

“Do you need anything from the washing room?”

Harry shakes her head before halting, tilts it in consideration.

“I mean, maybe I should. But I don’t feel like leaving this room, now,” she says. She stops again, eyes drifting shut before she adds with a smirk : “also, the corridor is too cold.”

Louis breathes out a laugh, slightly more tethered now.

“Bed?”

This time Harry nods, no hesitation in sight.

Louis’ hand closes around hers, tugging gently to lead them to rest. The sheets are cold on their toes, limbs shivering after a few seconds from the contact. But, without speaking, their bodies turn to each other on the mattress, feet grazing before being pressed together, a single point of focus.

The sight is familiar. Harry’s face in half-light, washed by the moon, white and blue; rich tones from the embers burning in the hearth. And everywhere else, shadows. Louis doesn’t know where to look, eyes jumping from beauty spots to eyelashes, the line left behind by a dimple. The cut of her eyelid, the valley where some strands go to hide.

“Can I touch you?”

“Of course.”

They map each other carefully, drawing in their memories what their fingers find, sculpting bones and flesh and heat and heartbeat. There, letting her hands pray at the altar of her love, Louis wonders if she’s ever been so devoted before, if she’ll ever be again. Because right there, thumb resting against Harry’s pulsing blood, there’s more reverence than she’s ever found on Sundays or in front of a canvas. It’s odd. It should feel more like an upheaval. Like a revolution; instead, a revelation.

She sees it too. The way Harry watches her, gaze floating so much like her own. She doesn’t know what she sees. She’s been called pretty before, charming more than once. But it doesn’t come close to the way she’s being seen right down, the outside of her less bare than what resides deep inside. Still, she stands her ground. There’s nothing to be afraid of here.

Harry breaks the silence with a low, raspy murmur that dies with their embrace.

“My little miracle.”

Christmas is quieter than what Louis is used to with her family. There’s no screeching laughter from downstairs, no half-hushed arguments passing by her door as she wakes up. No need to organise the outing to mass, no overseeing required from her father. Instead, there are these : opening her eyes to a nest of curls, closing her arms around the body laying halfway on top of her, running her fingers along Harry’s back in what she recognises as complete endearment. She lets it expand in her chest, roots settling deep in her core and sprouting new leaves. 

Time passes, trickling by slowly until Harry wakes, fingers flexing where they’re clutching Louis’s shirt before they stretch, body following suit. It doesn’t last long, her face nuzzling even closer to Louis’ neck, mouth smacking twice in a wet, loud sound.

“ _Bonjour, petit coeur._ ” Louis lets the endearment slip easily, happy she did when she feels Harry’s smile growing against her skin.

“Hello darling,” she grumbles.

They stay in bed for a while.

The day follows the same slow rhythm, filling Louis with a buoyancy and joy that she didn’t even know she missed. They all gather together to prepare the food they’ll share, a roasted chicken with vegetables and a red wine sauce made according to Liam’s mother’s own recipe. The entire afternoon is spent on the first floor, Harry reading to Liam and Niall in her burgundy dress, Louis painting her, the entire scene bleeding out with warmth from the fireplace. It’s a leisure that doesn’t feel lazy, doesn’t feel emptied out from meaning. On the contrary, it’s fulfilling, warming Louis’ heart as a wonderful meal would - has, really. 

They meet up with Zayn two days later, after Niall had gone to the village on some unknown errand. Louis doesn’t know how she’s been convinced to go outside when the wind is so effectively chilling her bones, nails and hair and clothes made brittle by the frost. Although, it mustn't have been a hard bargain to drive : she’d missed Zayn.

Still, she was cold.

“What are we looking for again?” she asks everyone, a burst of wind plucking her words from her mouth to carry them far in the open. They seem to reach Liam and Zayn though, both standing the closest to her.

“You, purple heather,” Liam calls back as she’s bent over a bush, the makeshift apron made from her bunched up skirts tight in her grip. “It’ll be in bushes, dark green. Tiny clusters of flowers.”

“Alright,” Louis replies. She studies her surroundings carefully, trying to spot anything violet despite the sparkling white sprinkled on the land and all its vegetation. She finds a few branches here and there, bending to pluck them, standing back to cover more ground, bending back once more. They’re few, white heather visible almost everywhere her gaze lands on, but the purple is there. Just sparse.

After a while, she loses focus, eyes tired, dry from the wind and trying to distinguish anything amidst a sea of grey and green. When she stands up, one final time, she sees Harry and Niall from the corner of her eyes. They’re both laughing, loud enough that the wind whispers tales of it in Louis’ ears. Niall points at something, redoubling Harry’s mirth, painting in turn a smile on Louis’ face. After a while, Harry twists around to face the edge of the land. When she turns around, she’s already speaking and whatever she says has Niall standing back up immediately. Louis turns away to join back Liam and Zayn who have drifted a few meters away.

It’s not long before Niall and Harry close in on them, makeshift aprons full with herbs. They empty everything into the drawstring bags Zayn designates for each sort. Only after it’s done does Niall speak up.

“Would you want to go for a swim?”

Zayn’s eyes widen almost comically but she doesn’t say no like she did the night of the solstice. Liam looks over at the sea, gaze calculating before glancing back to Zayn. 

“What do you say?” her voice probes gently, hand reaching out to land on Zayn’s shoulder. It’s curved protectively and Louis knows that whatever Zayn says will be law.

She hesitates.

“Actually, why not. If the beach is sheltered from the wind enough, I’ll try.”

Niall lets out an excited noise before bouncing on her feet, hands gathered behind her as she already set off.

“I mean, from what I remember, it’s not really the wind you should be worried about,” Louis whispers to Zayn as they start walking.

This time, everyone braves the sea. Zayn goes in with loud hisses and swears that has Niall in stitches, undershirts wet and doing nothing to protect them from the cold. Liam seems hesitant, watching Zayn from afar before she steps closer, offering something in a hushed voice too low to reach Louis’ ears. Zayn nods, prompting Liam to wrap one of her arms around her shoulder as they walk further in.

Niall doesn’t seem to care about the cold much. She steps into the waves, stopping a few times only to turn around and wave at them, urging them to tag along. She’s a force to be reckoned with, her gleeful smile warm enough to have them following, only a few meters separating them. Harry, meanwhile, hasn’t stopped once, already further, shoulder deep into the waves. She’s tranquil, unmoving. Just as ethereal in the daylight as she appeared for Yule, a siren back at sea. For a split second Louis wants to dive and check if, underwater, her legs have fused into a tail. But the salt would sting far too much, so she decides to join her instead, shivering as the water laps at her waist, then her breasts.

The lapping must alert Harry. She turns deliberately, face hiding in water up to her nose, blinking slowly.

“Hello there.”

Louis’ lips quiver, teeth chattering slightly from the cold. One of Harry’s hands emerges from the waves, thumb coming to rest right underneath Louis’ eye. Then, she lifts her face up enough to speak, lips as violet as the heather Louis picked.

“You’re already shaking,” she frowns. 

Louis just chuckles and shrugs, shoulders twitchy.

“Won’t argue with you on that.”

Harry’s frown deepens, her body appearing gradually. Louis tries not to get lost on the uncovered expanse of damp skin, the white cotton completely sheer, clinging to it. Everything shimmers with wetness : neck, jugular, collar, cleavage. She stops herself from reaching out to touch. 

Harry continues, unaware of her struggle.

“You could have stayed on shore. Or knee deep like last time, why did you come all the way when you get so cold?”

Louis can’t help herself much longer. She slides her arms slowly against Harry’s body, making sure she has all the time she needs if she wants to refuse Louis’ advance. She doesn’t though, only steps closer. With Harry wrapped securely in her arms, she answers.

“I just wanted to be with you, that’s all.”

Harry’s eyes crinkle at that, easy. 

“Thank you for the trouble, that’s sweet.”

“Well,” Louis quips up, but she doesn’t know how to end her sentence in a way that doesn’t sound defensive or lovesick. So she doesn’t, just shrugs again as she lets her gaze flee to the open sea.

Harry’s kiss startles her. It’s short, brings warmth back to her lips, has them tingling immediately before she feels Harry tugging on her hand with her own.

“Come on, let’s go back. I hope there’s a fire burning somewhere inside.”

Zayn stays the night after long minutes of pleading. She only relents once Niall promises they’ll help with preparing the herbs the following day.

She fits, slotting in their space like a missing piece. Liam has never looked happier, a smile permanently etched onto her face, positively radiant. She keeps orbiting around Zayn in a way that makes Louis bite down on a grin, wondering if Harry and her are as obvious in their affection. After their kiss in the sea, the answer is probably yes.

The evening is as pleasant as the day. Harry is back in her bed, their limbs tangling like weeds, vines intertwined and growing together. Kisses moist, passed from one mouth to another. From time to time, the swipe of a tongue to lick the sweat away from where it has beaded, collected above their lips like dew. Louis can’t stop drinking from it.

She wakes Harry with fingers in her hair, carding through the strands, sorting out the knots she finds there. There are content sighs, giggles that spill between them like bell chimes, Harry retaliating by biting down on Louis’ jaw, her neck, her shoulder, making her hiss and tremble under her ministrations. Still, she resists the urge to straddle Harry, to pin her hips down with her own because she doesn’t know, isn’t certain yet, that it would be welcomed and asking feels too daunting in the early morning where the sun can see them. So, instead, she tilts Harry’s head back, fingers woven deep within her hair tugging. She stills immediately, eyes blacking out in a way that has Louis tensing, clenching. That undermines all of her efforts.

Harry doesn’t let out even the slightest breath of air, only stares at Louis, legs slowly moving beneath her. Her tongue darts out once, licks over her night-chapped lips.

“We should help out for breakfast,” Louis tries.

Harry just blinks, limbs stilling as Louis’ fingers loosen their grip.

“Do we really have to?” she asks. Her voice is lower than Louis expected, raspy with disuse and Louis would love nothing more than to taste it on her tongue, nip at her throat to feel it coming out, skin trembling under her.

She presses a kiss to Harry’s temple instead, letting it linger as she inhales her scent. 

“We’ll have time later.”

Harry whines then. Half petulant, half teasing. Louis would be much more devastated if she couldn’t see the smirk on the lips she adores.

“We will!” She tugs at Harry’s hand but she doesn’t budge, arm lifting like a ragdoll.

“You swear?”

Louis can only close the distance between them, pecking Harry’s lips to seal her promise.

“I do. Now come on, sweetheart.”

As she starts to dress, Louis’ ear picks up Harry’s whispering to herself.

“Sweetheart.”

They help Zayn with the plants as promised, all five settling at the kitchen table with their bounty spread on the wood. They follow Zayn’s instructions dutifully, bundling different stems together, Louis trying to shake off Niall’s attempts at wrapping her rope around her fingers. After a few minutes of not quite silent play-fighting, she gives up, ending up with small bows at each knuckle that satisfy Niall greatly from the smug look on her face. Zayn seems to find Niall’s shenanigans just as amusing, brows struggling to stay straight to keep her expression unaffected. Still, after a while, calm settles once more and Niall just slides her creations off of Louis’ hands, thanking her for indulging her. Louis shrugs it away, reminds her that with four sisters she’s used to it, then steals some of Niall’s flowers in retaliation under her sounds of outrage.

When the evening has settled, day spent in serene bliss, Zayn goes home with Liam and Niall who insist on accompanying her. Whether it is a ploy to leave Harry and herself alone, Louis doesn’t know, but she decides to make good on her promise.

“Would you like to take a bath with me?”

If she wasn’t so nervous, she would laugh at how fast Harry’s head twists to look at her, at how large her eyes get from her proposition. But instead it only fuels the clamminess of her hands, the lava-hot knots tying in her belly, warmth pooling in a heady mix of apprehension and longing.

“Yes, yes please. I’d like that very much.”

Harry has to clear her throat to let the words out, to licks her lips and moisten her mouth and that’s reassuring, somehow, but does nothing to keep Louis’ guts from squirming.

She lets out a breath, not quite a sigh but an overwhelmed sound nonetheless, looking over at her hands that have, apparently, decided to anchor each other.

“Alright. Ehm. Shall she?”

She jerks her head towards the stairs and Harry nods, seemingly waiting on Louis to make the first move. So she does, feet shakily leading her to the steps.

They stop in front of the bathroom door. Louis doesn't know how they're supposed to do this.

"Should we…. Do you prefer to undress separately or…" she starts, unsure of how to properly voice what she means.

"Oh. I thought we could just, I don't know. Do that together?"

Louis grins when she sees her own nervousness mirrored in Harry. There's something funny in seeing each other being reduced to blumbering, unsure messes. 

"We can absolutely do that. I'll go fetch some water."

"Want some help?"

"Sure."

They manage to get water from the kitchen, letting it boil over the fire long enough to be sure it'll stay warm. The trip back is more precarious, hands too full to lift up their skirts as they climb, feet sometimes tripping on them. Yet, they manage it without spilling anything despite a few close calls that have them both giggling.

The atmosphere tenses again once the bath tin is full, steam billowing above it in thick tendrils. They both stare at it to not stare at each other.

"Do you want help? With the lacing."

Louis' voice cuts through the air like a knife through butter, easy and smooth.

Harry nods first, speaks second.

"Yes please."

With all the times Louis has touched Harry before, only seldom has it been with this much intent. Or, more precisely, one this specific. The urge to reach out is always here, simmering beneath her skin, but it's only that. An urge. Sometimes there are more layers : the wish to tuck a strand of hair behind an ear, to brush away a fallen eyelash, to sort out the wrinkles on her blouse. But there's never been the intent of seeing more, exploring more. Having her bare herself. The undressing, the discovering has been so focused on their insides that this opportunity, right there, feels greater than what seemed possible a few weeks ago. Too big to comprehend, too fragile to pass out on.

So, she wills her fingers still as she stands behind Harry, working to untie the knots of her loosely corseted blouse. 

Before she tugs on the last of them, she pauses; she wants to acknowledge the privilege she's being given, doesn't really know how to.

Still, she dives.

"Thank you. For allowing me."

Harry's curls sway in front of her face as she shakes her head.

"You don't have to thank me. I'm not doing you a favour. Actually…" She glances at Louis from behind her shoulder, lets their head bump gently together. "I'd say I'm doing myself one. Selfish, really"

There's a chuckle at that from them both, Louis closing her eyes, enjoying the sensation of Harry's hair on her skin, the rise of her stomach underneath her hands.

"Fine by me."

Lips press on her cheek, tender and lush.

"I trust you. I'm safe with you, and you're safe with me."

She hears the sound of clothes falling, gathering at Harry's feet. Then, there are hands on her, gathering at the front to untie her own garment.

She doesn't move, happy to let Harry work at the tedious fastening as she feels she'd only get in the way in trying to help. As she watches Harry's fingers, she realises she's never taken the time to appreciate this. The process of undressing, of having someone tend to her in that way. She's being unwrapped carefully, like something precious, skin revealed more and more as the clothes get peeled away. Stripped of all that's not her.

She opens her eyes once she's down to her undershirt, gaze immediately focusing on Harry's own. Louis’ fingers twist in the cotton of it, bunching the material off of Harry’s right shoulder slowly, carefully. The caress of her hands sounds like waves, pulling in, out, brushing clothes off as they leave only to replace them with skin, palm flat. Then, she takes off her own, hands traveling back once more. She can feel Harry’s body rising, lowering, frame shuddering with each breath as her eyes trace a path for her hands to follow. Louis’ cheeks, her neck, between her breasts, then flush against her stomach. Resting comfortably, like they were made for this place. Reveling. Belonging.

Louis exhales a deep contented sigh, tears gathering behind her lashes. Overwhelmed with ease, with how right this feels. With how there’s never been such a wholeness before, right there, in someone’s else touch.

A chuckle bubbles out of her, impossible to shush in time, and it brings one out of Harry’s as well.

Her thumbs stroke once, twice. Rest again right against her belly button.

“Alright?” she whispered, as if afraid to break the silence or more.

Louis smiles, tilts her head to meet Harry’s lips with her own.

“Perfect”.

They step into the bath, some water flowing out of the tin, bodies barely fitting in. Still, they manage to slot their limbs together carefully, legs akimbo in the small space between them. Their backs rest on each side of it and Louis immediately loves this. This proximity with Harry, seeing them tangled together so well. Absentmindedly, she lets her hand run along Harry's calf, tracing patterns in her hair, dark designs that stay put, stuck with water. She hears Harry's sigh, finds her lids closed when she glances at her, and feels her leg moving closer to her. Silently asking her to resume her petting. So she does.

She lets herself look, this time. Takes in Harry's face for what feels like the first time in too long. As much as she's been focusing on the feeling of her as she's painted lately, her loveliness never completely fades. It just recedes to the background, complimenting everything else that makes her her, enriching it. But it's her stubbornness, her curiosity, the way she cultivates her affection and cares for others that truly captivate Louis, make her heart swell and take flight.

Harry's lashes barely lift, eyes peeking from underneath, just a sliver of colour.

"You can look, you know. I know I am."

Louis splashes her with the back of her hand, feeling her cheeks turn crimson while Harry lets out a loud cackle that resonates against the tiles.

"Sorry! Sorry! I won’t say anything again," she jokes and Louis smiles despite her blush.

"You're a menace. See if I ever look at you again." A lie has never been as obvious as this one, they both know it. Yet, Harry plays along, foot coming to rest on Louis' thigh, toes digging in the meat of it, too deep to be ticklish. Instead, they just warm Louis even more. She grabs Harry’s ankle as she slides even closer to where Louis’ thigh meets her groin. Looking over at Harry, this time Louis allows herself to take her in completely. The expanse of milky skin, dotted here and there, contrasting with brown beauty spots, dusty pink areolas and pebbled nipples. The shift of her muscles, the chub of her hips, the trail of dark hair leading from her belly button into a nest of thick curls.

"What could I ever do to convince you?" Harry teases, and this time she wipes off everything from her face, an intense, eager look the only thing remaining.

Instead of answering, Louis just moves forward, captures Harry with her teeth as she sits on her thigh and bears down.

“Have you been with someone before?" Their bodies are cooling down, splayed on Louis' bed and stuck together with tacky dew.

Louis nods, fingers drawing endless patterns on Harry’s shoulder blades, revelling in the goosebumps that raise in her wake. 

“I have,” she confirms out loud as her thumb meets the curls laid out on milky skin, brushing them aside slowly before kissing their absence away.

Harry lets out a content hum, face peaceful; eyes closed, lips stretched in a happy smile.

“Ever been with a patron? Or a model?” she goes on, and Louis’ brows raise slightly, both considering the question and Harry’s curiosity towards the matter. There’s no accusation in her tone though, only interest, so Louis doesn’t let herself linger in her thoughts too long before answering.

“No, never,” she says before making a small noise in her throat, considering. “Not until now.” Harry’s smile turns into a grin, slightly smug and wicked, swooping inside Louis’ tummy and making a mess of it.

“Why not?”

“Aren’t you suddenly very curious,” Louis quips back, caught out by the harmless breathlessness Harry’s confidence is causing. Harry chuckles a bit, teeth and dimples out to play. 

“I’m always curious," she argues in defense, “I like learning things about you, I don’t care what they are, I just do. So I’m asking. You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to,” she adds, but Louis doesn’t feel forced to spill anything. With Harry, she’s always ready to share.

“I always refused to be with my models, or to think of them that way. Never even wanted to. I never thought I’d be one of those artists that seduces their muse.” “Is this what you’re doing, hm? Seducing me,” Harry giggles, hand coming to touch Louis’ jaw before brushing the lobe of her ear, swiping back and forth in a lulling caress.

“Aren’t I?” Louis asks, unable to keep a note of uncertainty from her voice, betraying a worry she didn’t even know she had. Yet it feels suddenly obvious, transparent in the glow of the candles, filling the air impossibly and keeping any from entering Louis’ lungs. Harry’s hand comes to clutch hers, fingers slowly slotting in the space left vacant. Filling in the emptiness that went unnoticed for years, a whole lifetime.

“Why can’t I be the one doing the seducing?” Harry asks, both playful and serious despite the snort her words earn from Louis. Her grip tightens imperceptibly as the silence stretches out. After a few seconds trinkle by, she stands up with a roll of her eyes, feet gliding down to rest on the cold wooden floor, bedsheet slowly leaving her body. Bunching it half heartedly around her waist, hand poised right underneath her breasts, she walks over to her figure painted in oils, cotton meeting cotton.

“Come here, Louis, please,” she gestures with the upturn of her index, almost commanding despite the way her eyes light up with tenderness.

Louis joins her, skin erupting in goosebumps as the cold air hits her sweat-damp skin.

“Here,” Harry says, hands coming to rest on Louis' waist, embracing her sideways, chin nestled against her shoulder to keep her eyes on the canvas. 

“You paint me all day and yet you don’t see, huh.”

Louis tries to find clues in the portrait, in the brushstrokes of the day and all the ones before, in the layers of pigments and love she’s carefully applied.

“What am I missing then?” she asks, grinning, cheeks pressing against Harry in a futile attempt to be closer, feel her against her body even more than what their entanglement allows.

“If you look at me, I look at you,” Harry states simply, words hitting her skin like waves lapping at sand. Adoring, pleading. Trying to show their fervour.

Considering them, Louis looks at the painting more carefully; looks at the dark line of her lashes, the cloudy green of her irises. And Louis sees. She sees Harry’s eyes on the painting, staring straight at her. Feels Harry’s real ones on her profile, attentive, meticulous in the way they commit to memory every detail of Louis. She turns her head slightly to meet her gaze. 

“You do?” Louis asks, her entire being suspended to Harry’s lips.

Harry nods, a frantic little gesture that makes her curls bounce against her collar bones.

“Of course I do. I always do.” She lets out a breathless noise, leans in to kiss Louis' neck, lick at the skin she's already bruised. Louis revels in the feeling, body clenching, melting around nothing as she loses herself in Harry's mouth.

"How could I not? I swear, you've not met yourself. Or seen yourself," Harry adds, whispers reverently against her throat. Her hands move again, unable to stay still when they touch Louis’ body. They gently brush against her shoulder, grazing the hair of her armpit lovingly before grabbing at the space right underneath, thumb coming to rest on her nipples, nails pressing down incrementally. They harden instantly. 

"I mean. I'm me. Doesn't that count?" Louis tries to say, rasp more present now.

Harry just tugs her to bed, laying herself down for Louis.

"Clearly it doesn't."

Love seeps into them like the rain after a draught. It settles in the soil, pools in deep caverns that stayed barren for too long and gives them life again. It grows green tendrils of truth : I am worthy of love, being who I am is alright. I belong in someone’s arms and in someone’s heart.

Every look, every brush of fingers, every press of lips against any expanse of skin takes its time to settle, allows that truth to make its way to the sun and bloom. 

It's in the way she paints her too. There's no anger this time, no grief. The ending hasn't changed for them but for now, at least, all of her discord with herself and what she's laying on her canvas have vanished. Louis doesn't lie to herself. She knows her mind, her temper. Has learned Harry's own, too. She knows this peace, here and now, might not last until they separate. But she's ready for it.

However, Louis has never known this. This feeling, this anchor and tender kinship that still makes room for her, for Harry. For their thoughts, for their individual beings. It's a slower pace than what she’s lived before, when passion burned at both ends, engulfing everything in flames

And yet, this is just as searing, marking every piece of Louis’ organs with one certainty. She will tend to this love forever, even long after she’s gone. Remember what treasure she found, once upon a time, on an island lost at sea.

Somehow, they decide to celebrate the new year passing at Zayn's lodge. Liam had come back from her visit just like on the eve of Yule, eyes twinkling and mouth opening as soon as she'd walked through the door.

Everyone agreed easily, and the journey to the village is an eerie, distorted echo of the night of solstice. This time, they all walk in a line, cheerful talk bouncing from one end to the other, arms heavy with bottles of wine plucked straight from the cellar. Niall picked them herself, claiming to know what she was doing and Louis had no doubt she truly did.

Her right hand is out in the cold, the lingering warmth of Harry's own improving on the protection her fingerless gloves allowed. From time to time, she swings them to her mouth, darting from behind her scarf to kiss their intertwined knuckles. Harry's delighted giggle is reward enough for braving the wind.

They reach Zayn's easily, guided by Liam who takes upon herself to knock. Her fist has barely touched the wood that Zayn's already opening the door wide, a large smile welcoming them.

They fumble with their outer layers, scarves and gloves quickly coming off to better embrace each other.

Louis hears an aside "missed you" that spills from Zayn's lips onto Liam's cheek. She's never seen Liam looking so pleased.

"Sorry, it's not much," Zayn starts, arms opening as if to encompass her dwelling but Harry raises a hand, effectively shushing any more self-depreciating words.

Instead, she swims upstream.

"No, Zayn. It's lovely!"

As she speaks, she's already looking around. Louis understands why : if she thought the apothecary was busy, it's nothing compared to Zayn's own space. Trinkets cover a large number of her furniture, tucked away in corners of the bookshelf, nestled against a windowsill. Dried flowers are everywhere, a few hanging on the walls but others kept in jars on the chimney mantle. Still, the space is tidy and neatly organised, sketching out areas that have purpose.

"Thank you, Harry," Zayn replies, the tightness in the lines of her eyes disappearing almost completely. "Make yourselves comfortable, I thought we could sit and chat for a bit before eating but if anyone's hungry we can have dinner now."

They all look at each other, no one speaking up.

"Sounds perfect," Niall nods once everyone is on the same page. "Need any help with anything?"

Zayn throws a glance at the cooking pot hanging over the fire. "I think we're good for now. I'll just have to bake the bread last so it stays hot but otherwise, everything is ready."

They all settle in or around the sofa and armchair, plush cushions welcoming Louis and Harry who decide to sit on the floor back to front, Harry comfortably settled between Louis' legs.

"How have you been?" Louis asks, "any big events here in the past, what, three days?"

"What could even happen here," Niall snorts.

"Well, actually, the butcher's son has returned from the mainland. Except he came back with a wife. How is that for an event?" Zayn replies, words placid and unhurried but Louis sees the mischief in her eyes, the way she's holding herself from raising her brows.

"Wait, Gwenaël did what?" is Niall's only answer, half yelled with shock.

Louis cannot help but laugh.

Wine flows freely between them, passed around the table once they settle down for dinner. Zayn bakes flat breads over the fire - chapatis, she says - that they plunge into a thick lentil soup, texture and taste mixing into a rich meal that fills their bellies and warms them up. The alcohol helps, too. As they nurse their drink, their ideas for entertainment get louder, Niall deciding to stand up and sing an old Breton song that has Liam and Harry standing up to dance to it. It's more messy than not, despite odd moments of grace when Liam twirls on beautifully, skirt billowing around her. Harry… Harry's less coordinated, somehow. Despite all the elegance she has, the poise Louis has witnessed many times, her movements are wild, less harmonious but oh so joyful, her happy giggles and mock curtsey endearing Louis more than ever. When Zayn finally joins them, Harry drops in her chair, breath laboured but grin wide.

She takes another sip of her drink, teeth stained purple which shouldn't make Louis want to kiss her more and yet, it does.

Instead, she picks some of the dried flowers laid on the table - roses and lavender and some of the heather they'd harvested together - and tucks them right behind Harry's ear.

Harry's eyes immediately turn to her, slightly hazy but still very much present.

"You're decorating me, now?" she inquires. She rests her head in her palm as if it's entirely too heavy for her neck to hold up. That earns her another flower, this time on the other side. Then another, right above her forehead.

"Does it bother you?"

She shakes her head very slowly, careful not to dislodge any of Louis' decorations.

"Not at all. I like it. Put in as much as you want."

She stays very still as Louis adds more, plaiting them with the curls in an awkward but pretty crown. It takes a few minutes until she's satisfied, but once she's done she notices Harry's eyes on her, tracing her features over and over again.

"You're so beautiful," she whispers. It feels like a secret, like a small gift Harry is giving her. No. Like she's bringing back something lost. She brushes a strand away from Harry's face, fingers wrapping it around a stem already placed.

"So are you."

Harry's dimple peeks through. Louis tries to kiss it away but fails, its shadow only deepening in Harry's cheek. Harry picks a clementine from the fruit bowl Zayn had placed on the table earlier. Her nail digs deep in the skin, pearls of juice escaping in the air in a light spray. The smell hits their nose at the same time, Louis' feeling her own scrunching slightly, seeing Harry doing the same. She keeps peeling carefully, thumbs moving around the fruit, zest gathering underneath her nails, painting them orange.

"All done," she says softly, twisting it in two separate halves, offering one to Louis with a wiggle of her brows. 

Louis takes it absentmindedly, too focused on the way Harry's fingers come to brush the center of the fruit, pressing down slightly until juice squeezes out, pooling around them. She stops, sucks the digits into her mouth and Louis hisses, heat blooming between her legs.

"Harry," she tries, tone as stern as she can make them. But she's unsuccessful, watching helplessly as Harry bites into the clementine with no hesitation, juice sticking to her lips, dripping down her chin and her wrist.

"Fuck."

Harry giggles, the cruel little thing, mouth chasing the tart taste on her skin before grinning wide, purple hue now almost cleared from her teeth. She's some kind of deity, the ones artists would paint, myths spanning over centuries to reach humble mortals all over again. Move them to tears, bend wills into adoration.

"I'm sorry," Harry smiles, not sounding sorry at all. She leans in, nudging her nose along Louis'. "I can't seem to get a hold of myself when I'm with you."

"I mean, usually I wouldn't complain. But we're not really alone right now, are we?"

Harry peeks to the side, Liam, Niall and Zayn still singing and dancing merrily, paying them no mind. She says nothing, but Louis sees her too well now. So, she counters.

"I know. Still."

Harry's bottom lip juts out slightly, Louis capturing it in her own gently, soothing both of them.

"Come on," she whispers, standing up to join their friends. Harry follows.

The bell rings midnight at some point. They barely make a note of it, too busy sharing stories and cider by the fire. In the end, they end up bringing every blanket available there, creating a misshapen nest where they all lay down. Louis can't help but tuck Harry in, bundling her inside the warm wool despite her wiggling and sniffing and attempts at breaking free. She manages to coax her to stillness, wrapping her in her arms when she's done. As the embers burn in the hearth, they fall asleep to Niall's whispers retelling old legends and ghost stories, finding comfort in the night.

They spent the following day finishing the portrait, Harry back into the burgundy dress as the sun follows its course in the sky behind her. Louis tries her best to keep the bittersweetness of the moment at bay, trying to crack a few jokes to lighten the mood, hands rubbing together from time to time in a twisted version of one of her years long habits.

Harry smiles at them in answer, but Louis knows from watching her face, her eyes and the lines that frame them, that she does it more for Louis' sake than her own. She doesn't need a distraction from what they're closing together, the beginning of the end. No. She welcomes it with her head held as high as when Louis saw her at that first dinner. But her eyes burn, burn of that pale fire, flickers of gold licking at her irises in a way she hid for so long. 

Louis quiets down, slowly: Harry doesn't need her reassurance. She needs her presence. So she paints, brush strokes adding the final details on her dress, her hair. The slight twist of her smile.

When Harry stands up, sunset draping itself over the moors, she comes to stand next to Louis, peers over her shoulder at her reflection.

She hums, a tranquil, pleased sound that settles in Louis' bones like moonlight. There's a kiss on her cheek, then a whisper.

"Thank you."

"We'll have to wait at least two days before varnishing. It's a thin coat, it should be dry by then. Maybe three."

She's babbling, doesn't know how to stop until Harry touches her face, guiding it towards her to let their foreheads touch.

"It's alright. We'll finish it together."

Louis gulps. There it is, flowing, pouring out of her. Probably as obvious as she's ever been. The cloying bittersweet taste of closure.

She nods to keep herself from crying.

When they finish dinner, Harry asks to retire early. Louis is curious, can’t help it when faced with another one of her sweetheart's mysteries, but she says nothing, allowing Harry all the leeway she desires. They make their way to Louis' room, Harry guiding her to sit on the armchair by the chimney.

"I want you to…" she croaks, clearing her throat before starting again, "I want you to draw me.

Louis stays silent, waits for an explanation that doesn't come.

"You mean, do you want a drawing like your portrait?" she tries, but Harry's violent shake of her head dismisses that hypothesis immediately.

"No. No, not like that."

She makes her way to the window, finger gliding against its surface in abstract shapes.

"I want a drawing of yours but one that's for me. One that shows me that. I don't know. One that reminds me of me. But through you. I'd like to keep it. I think I'll need to keep it." 

She admits it all to the night, to the glass, not turning to face Louis yet.

"Does that make sense? I want something from you. Something that's me, from you."

"It does. Sweetheart, it does."

Louis hears the wobble in her voice but none of them comment on it. They let it linger in the air, a tie that binds them together in sorrow, in yearning. In longing that is bound to happen again, but another kind, one they haven't faced yet.

Harry sighs. It sounds relieved.

"How do you want it to be?" Louis asks, and Harry's gaze is back on her, her cheeks rosy with something. Her eyes don't linger for long, fleeting about the room before they land on her twisting hands.

"Well, I had an idea in mind. But I'm not sure."

Louis stands then. She needs to touch Harry, to be there, brush the worries away. So she does, fingers coming to find Harry's own, thumbing at her wrist in a way she hopes to be soothing.

"Harry, anything you want. I'll draw anything you want, alright?"

Harry nods, a small movement she pairs with a tug of her lips, with another, smaller sigh.

"Alright. I'll be right back," she answers, letting go of Louis' hands to leave the room.

Louis gets her tools ready, lays sketchbooks and charcoal on the small table she's moved by the armchair. She gets out some paint too, just in case. 

She doesn't want to mess this up.

So when she hears the door click open, she doesn't see Harry immediately, back turned to the room as she cleans her workspace. She only turns after the door shuts close again and Harry clears her throat with a small noise.

"Oh."

She doesn't even realise she's let out a sound until Harry's eyes become a little more insistent, a pleading edge to them that Louis wants to immediately chase away.

"Harry, you're stunning."

She succeeds. The green is clearer now, larger as Harry eyes widen slightly at her words.

"Really?"

"Yes. Really," she asserts, foot stepping forward without thinking but she stops. She doesn't want to startle Harry, to make any wrong move.

"Will that work? For the drawing?"

Louis nods again. She doesn't feel like she's capable of much else, breath completely stuck in her lungs, emotion building up inside them and desperate to spill out but she can't, won't cross a line that might exist without her knowledge so instead she just speaks.

"Do you want to stay like this or do you prefer sitting down?"

Harry mulls over the question, the line in her brows that Louis loves so much making an appearance.

"I think I'd rather stay like this. Standing up."

"Alright."

Louis steps back to her station, sits in her armchair and picks up her sketchbook.

"Is charcoal good or do you want it in colour?"

"Black and white, please."

She nods, makes sure Harry knows she heard before picking up her coal. It feels heavier than ever before, filled with possibility, with pride. With admiration.

She starts sketching.

The line that cuts Harry's chest in half, neat and clean. The cut of the shoulders, the pads that give the jacket it's squared shape, wool taut over them. 

Harry's hands are hidden in the pockets, as if they don't know where to go. One plays with the hem of the jacket, the golden thread that runs along the bottom, lining it up perfectly. Then they touch the cufflinks, adjusting them carefully.

Louis likes them this way, the shape they create. She sketches the pose as is, aware of her own bias; she's loved Harry's hands from the very beginning. 

She tries to draw the buttons accurately, their engraved symbols still unknown but she discerns something more easily now. A flower shape, petals and leaves. 

The shirtsleeves are next, fitted beautifully around Harry's wrist. The white collar contrasts against the navy of the ensemble, framing Harry's neck, complimenting the milky skin.

Then, she draws the trousers, the long line of Harry's legs perfectly defined by their cut. The satin strips shimmer on each side when Harry moves, their texture shining in the dark, reflecting the flames burning behind Louis. 

Through it all, she can't stop glancing at Harry's face, trying to decipher the expression that's there. Somehow, she expected Harry's mannerisms to morph, transform into something different but they haven't. They're still here, Harry's body twitching the same way, moving the same way, a bashfulness that slowly ease into confidence the more Louis looks, observes and lingers. It's the same and yet, completely other, something so tangibly moving vibrating in the air as she draws Harry like this, in the clothes from the forgotten room. What she knows for sure is that Harry has never glowed so bright.

She sketches in silence, focuses her entire being into pouring the subject of her affection onto the paper once more. If Harry's portrait had felt right this time, rich with soul and knowledge and reciprocity, this drawing feels like a completion. A companion, a key. One that Louis creates with love.

She doesn't know how much time has passed when the final line touches the paper. It's a piece of hair, one of the curls that have escaped Harry's ribbon, grazing her face adoringly.

Louis puts down her coal with one last, long look at her piece before glancing at Harry.

"Done."

Harry stands still for a few seconds before stepping forward, closing in slowly on Louis, hands twisting again but gentler now, harshness completely gone. Louis tilts the drawing towards her as she leans in.

She hears Harry's breath escaping, feels it hit the side of her face, followed by a small sound. Something that sounds as happy as wounded, but Harry rests her head on Louis' shoulder before she can turn to check.

"I love it. Lou, I love it. Thank you."

"Of course, love. No need to thank me."

It's like a dam has been broken. Harry's fingers grasp the thick paper, putting it back on the table before reaching for Louis' neck.

"You're so… I didn't think it would feel that good. You were right."

"I often am," Louis jokes, giggles spilling from their mouths. "What about?"

"’Should’ doesn't matter. I like them, and I feel good, I feel _right_. Like this. I like _this_."

Louis can't stop herself from beaming, can't stop her eyes from watering with how much she feels, how much she loves Harry, how much she needs to say it.

"If you had any doubt, let me make myself very clear. You look absolutely stunning, Harry. Just… just beautiful." She cradles Harry's face in her palms, thumbs coming to rest in the hollow of her cheeks.

Somehow, Harry still looks surprised. Curious.

"Really?"

So Louis presses further, lips capturing Harry's, teeth catching on the plush flesh and resisting the urge to bite down and consume.

"Handsome, Harry", she murmurs, professes against her mouth, "properly handsome."

A groan escapes from Harry's throat, rattling between their bodies as her hands settle on Louis' waist, finding purchase wherever they can.

"Lou, fuck. Lou," she whines, tugging at the buttons of Louis' blouse and Louis wants to help, is eager to help. They manage to unfasten enough of them for her undershirt to peek through, Harry's hands immediately untying the knot holding the neckline together.

"Off, off, off," Louis demands, trying to slide Harry's jacket off of her shoulders but it's too stiff, unbending while her arms move so much. Harry hears her all the same, peeling the item from her frame with a frantic "yes, anything you want." They stumble backwards, feet close to tripping on the rug, both chuckling as they try to keep their balance.

"Let's not break something falling, shall we," Louis laughs, slowing the press of her lips on Harry's neck, fingers parting her shirt from her skin as she nips at it, watching chills coming alive.

Harry just hums. Her hands have slowed too, focusing more on their journey. Sliding tenderly from the curve of Louis' neck to the bottom of her spine, cupping her cheeks with intent. Louis feels herself clench at the touch, wetness gathering even more between her legs.

Her heel bumps into the armchair, startling her away from Harry. She sits down, arms reaching out to free the hem of Harry’s shirt from her trousers. In response, Harry straddles her lap, slides her undershirt from her shoulders, leaning in immediately to wrap her mouth around an exposed nipple.

Louis moans, her fingers tangling in Harry's hair, ribbon barely holding it together as she 

tugs reflexively. It causes another whine from Harry, her tongue lapping one last time before leaving Louis' breasts. She sits back gingerly, determined to remain precariously perched on Louis. Her eyes have never been darker.

"I love you, you know." 

She says it not like a confession but as a confirmation. She says it the same way she'd say that the sky is blue, that the grass is green. That she likes reading or cares for her friends.

She says it like it's obvious, a truth. Says it like it doesn't shatter the earth, outshine the sun and darken the moon. 

"I always thought that love for me would mean being constrained, chained somehow. I thought of what I've been taught and what the world showed me. That love, with a partner - a husband - would be something that I might get to have after long, long years and that it’d mean cutting myself into pieces that wouldn’t be me at all. That there would be good, but that it had a cost.” She pauses, hand resting against her breast, clutching her open shirt, running down the line of buttons. “And that cost was _me_. I had to hide _me_. Break _me_.” She smiles then, bashful and wide and wobbling. “But I was wrong. I was so wrong. That was not love."

She leans back in, thumb brushing under Louis's eyes to wipe away her tears.

"That's love. This, with you. With you I don't feel tamed. I feel _freed_."

Louis hears herself sob, feels herself sob, a tremor in her entire body that allows more tears to fall and despite it all Harry is smiling, laughing even but her eyes are wet too.

Louis licks at her lips, wills her voice not to waver too badly when she speaks, but it’s a fight she can’t win.

"If that wasn't clear enough, I love you too. Harry, I love you so, so much."

Harry laughs harder, hands touching her hair, her neck, her shoulders.

"That's good," she replies, "that's good. I’m glad. Thank you"

“Don’t you dare thank -”

Harry cuts her reply by leaning back in, their kisses bathed in salt, losing themselves in each other further. Louis holds onto Harry’s neck desperately, her other hand finding her sternum, sliding down. The pad of her fingers meet Harry’s belly button first, the fine line of hair that stops at the hem of her trousers. She skips over it, hand reaching between her legs to cup Harry, rub gently at the inseam. As Harry keens, she feels her bear down, moisture seeping through.

“Fuck, Lou.”

She gets off Louis, falls to her knees to better drown, fingers bunching Louis' skirts until she grips them herself, thighs open for Harry to fit in between. At the touch of her mouth, Louis is melting, dissolving in water like sugar, sticky sweet. Ripeness blooming on her tongue, Harry moans, and Louis answers.

The days that follow pass in a blissful daze, bleeding into each other without tarnishing the rest they bring. Zayn visits again, all of them gathering into the living room, Harry reading some of her favourite tales aloud for all to enjoy. They reenact some plays Louis brought, even make an attempt at singing the harmonies in _Psyché_. The result, oddly enough, isn't as bad as they’d feared, their voices harmonising well despite their shortcomings on deciphering the score.

Harry asks for some drawing lessons from Louis. They make some time for it, setting up a small station in Harry's study where they like to hide sometimes. They quickly realise that Harry has a knack for botanicals, her illustrations detailed and precise. Even Zayn is impressed, asking if Harry could help sketching a few plants she wants her clients to know about.

The portrait is left to dry in the sitting room. It's presence doesn't feel as heavy as it once did. When Louis looks at it, it is merely a reminder that time is ticking by faster than she truly realises. That every second here, in the home she's found, is precious. So, most of the time, she goes to find Harry, to press a kiss to her cheek, to tell her she loves her.

The first time Harry wears trousers outside of their rooms, Louis almost breaks a glass. She shouldn't have worried anymore than when they'd first kissed in front of their friends : no one comments on it. Except Niall, once, warning Harry that she was about to stain her garment while cooking and making sure it remained unscathed.

They varnish the painting together, just as they said. A thick coat that glosses over all and, despite its meaning, despite the way it tugs at Louis' heart, they manage to laugh through it. This time, she has Harry by her side. It helps

Harry surprises her one more time, as they walk on the moors, their feet stepping over the white frosted grass and flowers that desperately, miraculously still bloom in winter.

Harry leads them to the beach with the hidden cave, the place drowning Louis in a tidal wave of tenderness for the people they were a month ago, dancing around each other with such tentativeness. 

They crowd against each other, sit on one of the flattest rocks at the end of the alcove, wind unable to reach them as they lay here, nestled against each other.

Harry's voice cuts the silence, barely louder than the sea.

"I wanted to give you something."

Louis glances at her amusedly, hands belonging into each other.

"Whatever for?"

Harry smiles before she even speaks, which, Louis has learned, never bodes well for her.

"Your birthday."

She huffs and puffs immediately at the words, the desire to steal her hand from Harry to cross her arms strong.

"Harry, my birthday was more than two weeks ago. We had a lovely dinner, you all made sure of that. That was already more than enough." She knows her arguments are pointless, that whatever Harry's planned she'll allow. Still, it feels good to remind her.

Harry looks like she was ready for some obstacles. She wears an apologetic smile, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes, making Louis frown even harder.

"I know, I know. But, I just wanted to have an excuse to give you this. So, I'm saying it's a birthday present. I thought you'd like that more than a present for no reason."

She's right. She's right, but Louis refuses to let her know. From her face, it's clear she already knows.

"Alright. What is it then, love?"

Harry's free hand disappears in the folds of her skirts, probably reaching into her pocket. It's quickly back out and, clutched tightly between Harry's fingers, there's a small box.

"Here. Happy birthday. I love you."

Louis doesn't really feel herself pick the box, nor does she realise she's opening it. It just happens, the case parting to reveal a ring. Two hands reaching out to hold a crowned heart, cast in silver.

She knows what this is.

"Harry," she whispers, "that's -"

"Une _bague de foi_. Fede ring. Claddagh. I… I don't know if you still use it in Paris. Or anywhere else, really. But we do here. And I wanted to gift one to you."

She's combing her hand through her hair and Louis should reach out, tug it close to her heart but she finds herself unable to do anything except look at her gift. An engagement ring.

"I know we will never… I mean I know I'm marrying someone else. I'm marrying someone I don't know, someone I don't love. Someone who doesn't love me. Someone I am unwilling to promise what I'm promising you."

Louis does, then. She takes Harry's hand, kisses it with as much affection as she can.

"Tell me then. Tell me what this is for you."

Harry clears her throat, looks over at their hands

"They say for the Irish it's love, loyalty and friendship. I mean, all Celts will agree to that." Harry stops, rueful grin tucked to the side. "But it's also me pledging my vows. If we weren't who we are - no. If _things_ weren't how they are, I could ask for your hand properly. I could have told everyone that my happiness and my love reside by your side and I could have married you. But we can't."

Louis sniffles, fingers clutching Harry's tighter.

"But that doesn't mean I can't tell you. Or show you. I want you to know that if I could, that's what I'd do. That if I could, and if you would allow me to, I would always stand by your side. I'd be with you, I'd love you. I do, I love you."

The wind is already drying Louis's tears, skin stinging and tacky.

"I would too. Harry, I would too."

She carefully takes the ring in her palm and offers it to Harry.

"Put it on me?"

She seems taken aback by the offer which would usually make Louis laugh but her heart is too busy swelling and breaking, both events happening on a never ending loop that begins and ends with Harry's feeble smile.

It slides on Louis' finger perfectly and she lets out a choked up chuckle at the sight.

"How did you even get the size right?"

Harry sniffles, chuckles too.

"Niall. The rope she got on your fingers, that was for me. She kept the loops and gave them to a woman in the village. She has a few rings and thank God one matched."

"She - that was for this?"

Her voice rises high, incredulous echoes bouncing off the rocks to dance with Harry's giggles.

They don’t expect Niall’s cousin when he arrives. There’s a knock on the front door and then, suddenly, a bearer of bad news.

Louis doesn't see him, but she hears his voice filtering from the entrance into the sitting room. It's cheerful, speaking to Niall in a familiar tone that sounds genuine.

"I received a letter from the Lady's coachman. She should arrive tomorrow. Or the day after at the latest, but I think it'll be earlier than that. They’d just arrived in France when he sent it."

"Thanks, Connor. We'll start preparing the house for her return."

Louis tunes out the rest of their conversation. Her ears are filled with an odd buzzing that drapes over her like a blanket. Even after all the time she's had, after all the respite they've been gifted, she still wasn't ready after all.

"Lou? Are you alright?"

There's a warmth on her cheeks, under her chin. Green tinted with a hint of worry that grows bigger as seconds trickles by.

"Your mom is almost here. She arrives tomorrow."

The green disappears, lashes tickling Louis' skin as they fan out. Silence stretches again. Resignedly counting down.

"Alright."

Louis decides to go to the village one last time. She doesn't want to draw out what cannot be avoided, doesn't want her and Harry to agonize over a separation that was always bound to happen. An immovable point in time they were running to without slowing down once.

Still, she wants to say goodbye. Friends will be mourned too.

Niall, Liam and Harry all decide to join her. Maybe they feel her desire to have this last day together. Maybe some aura emanates from her, an odd siren song they're willing to succumb to.

The reason why they're visiting her unexpectedly must show on their face ; Zayn doesn't ask any questions. She simply closes the apothecary for the afternoon, suggesting they go to the beach for one last walk. When they reach it, Louis recognises where she is. Some signs of the pyre remains, burnt wood gathered in a small circle still. The ashes have been swept away by the wind but the logs are still anchored deep in the sand, left to erode with time and salted water.

As they wander, Zayn steps closer, their gait falling in sync.

"I'm gonna miss you, you know."

Louis nods. Her eyes are already welling up, despite the gusts of wind and despite the sand and despite how many times she wills herself not to weep.

"I know. I'm gonna miss you too," she blubbers, wiping her nose with her sleeve as best as she can.

"Your presence here, it changed a lot of things. Changed them for the better. And we'll never forget that. I'll never forget that."

Zayn doesn't sound steady either, tone tense and fragile in a way she's never been before. That knowledge breaks Louis' defenses.

She stops in her tracks, opens her arms wide and asks.

"Cuddles?"

Zayn lets out a choked out laugh as she steps forwards, arms curling around Louis' back lovingly.

"Thank you for being you, Louis."

Louis closes her eyes, lets herself breathe in, and smiles.

Harry doesn't let her out of her sight. There's an ache in Louis's chest, her heart, weighing heavier as hours go by. And everytime she meets Harry's gaze, she sees it reflecting back. 

Dinner is one of their quietest. The air doesn't feel tense, nor sad. Simply contemplative, filled with dozens of memories as they cook together. Now, no one bumps into the other anymore, Louis and Harry long included into Niall and Liam's practised dance Louis had fawned over before. Now, it's as easy as breathing.

They retire to the living room after a few glasses of cider. Even if it's kept unspoken, they all feel it in the air : they're not willing to part ways yet.

So, instead, they read. They read more plays, sing more songs. They tell each other stories that have been told before but this time not to discover them. This time it's to remember them, tuck each word carefully into themselves for safekeeping, for carving out every ounce of it once Louis will be gone and carry them along.

But even this has to end. The new logs turn to embers, exhaustion settling in their bodies with loud yawns and cracking joints. They part on the landing with wishes of sweet dreams.

Louis doesn't ask if Harry will follow as she walks to her bedroom. She hasn't asked in a while, and tonight she certainly won't. 

They slip inside soundlessly, even the parquet staying silent beneath their feet. The fire is still going, wrapping them in warmth even as they undress each other. Tonight is for tenderness, for perpetuity and, as the glint of Louis' ring shines in firelight, they lay down together.

Louis doesn't know which one reaches out first, their hands meeting in the middle.

"Lou?"

"Hmmm?"

"I wanted to thank you. You know, for speaking up."

"Speaking up?" she repeats, mind rifling through weeks of memories to pinpoint what Harry is talking about.

"Yes. For us."

"What for? You were the one who confessed. In quite the remarkable way, too."

Harry's throaty laughter hits her skin, the sound sending sparkles in her insides, even after weeks of hearing it.

"Maybe. But you were the one who made it happen. You were the one who asked for more time."

Louis shrugs as Harry wiggles closer, their faces only separated by inches now.

"Of course I did. You didn't like the painting. I wasn't leaving if you didn't like the painting." She lets her finger caress Harry's contours, from the shell of her ear to the top of her nose. "Even then, I couldn't bear the thought of disappointing you."

Harry's dimple deepens in the dark.

"Maybe I would have liked it more if I wasn't so enamoured with you. I would have been more impartial then. Honestly, did you expect me to bid you farewell easily?"

A bright burst of laughter comes out of Louis, soon joined by her lover. Once they quiet down, she shakes her head.

"Never."

Harry's hands move as well, one resting above her breast, the other cradling her jaw.

Louis murmurs.

"Do you think we were fated? Bound to happen?"

They stay still, until slowly, Harry shakes her head.

"No. I don't. I've known my fate for months now. Years even. I haven't had a say in it, it was forced upon me from beginning to end."

Her thumb swipes gently at Louis's skin, tight over her bone.

"You, I chose. I chose you every step of the way. And I would again, choose you again and again and again. "

Lulled by Harry's touch and her words, Louis feels herself drifting slowly to sleep. 

There's one thing she needs to say.

"Harry?"

"Hmm?"

"Once you’re married. I know it sounds completely out of touch but, once you're married. Please, keep doing things for you. Keep choosing you. You're bound to do this, but it should end there. I know how it is. But it should. You can’t choose me, so choose you."

Her words are met with silence. But then, Harry's fingers drift to her lips, tracing over the shape of them.

"And you, you trust yourself. You remember that you exist outside of your father, that you don't owe anyone your happiness if you want to leave for something else. You've been tied down for so long. Do what you really want to do, even if that means leaving."

Louis' desire to protest dies as Harry keeps talking. She won't cast her thoughts away when she cares so deeply. Not now, nor ever.

Instead, she leans in, kisses Harry's lips as best as she can.

"I'll carry you with me," she vows against her skin. She feels Harry's answering smile, her mouth part to reply.

"And I'll carry you with me."

They're asleep in seconds.

Anne arrives in the late afternoon. Niall and Liam have spent the day cleaning the manor from top to bottom, Louis and Harry both helping to the best of their abilities. But they'd quickly been shooed off with the task of packing Louis' belongings as she's leaving with Anne's coach to join the port.

Her clothes are easily gathered, the few items she'd brought mainly kept within the walls of her bedroom. Her supplies, however, have been scattered around the house day after day. They manage it in the end, bringing Louis's bags to the hallway in a way that makes it obvious that, in a few hours, she'll be gone.

It's the neighs of the horses that warn them first, the sound of a small commotion heard outside. They all gather on the front porch, an odd, twisted mirror of when they had waved Anne goodbye.

Anne is as beautiful as ever. She's guided out of the coach by the driver, an unknown man following right behind her.

"Hello girls, hi," she waves. They all respond in earnest, Louis trying her best to keep any of her emotions from showing. As she chances a peek at Harry, she feels her lip tremble for a second. Harry's face is carefully blank, all traces of herself cleared off, shunned away. Even if the Duke's messenger wasn't there, she wouldn't have blamed her.

Anne hugs Harry first before acknowledging everyone with a tilt of her head.

"How have you been?"

No one speaks for a few seconds. Then Niall, wonderful Niall, takes it upon herself to do so.

"Good, we've been good."

It startles them into action, Liam opening the front door to let everyone in.

"Did you have a nice journey?"

Louis doesn't really have the heart to listen to the answer but she does. She doesn't want to be rude for her last moments in the house.

"I have! My brother was oddly in a very cheerful spirit, which I'd usually find concerning but I think it was mostly due to the presence of his grandson. His wife told me the boy positively transforms him."

The man follows behind them, awkwardly trying to help Liam and Niall with carrying Anne's belongings. They don't let him.

"I know we don't have a lot of time. I mean, unless you want to stay until…. Tomorrow morning? Maybe we could find someone to take you to the port then?"

Louis shakes her head. It would not help, lingering without being able to be with Harry the way they both want to. Lost in an odd, painful limbo. She glances at Harry as discreetly as possible, checking in on what she thinks. But she's right : Harry's eyes are already on her, sorrowful, a small smile twisting her mouth. She tilts her head, a small acknowledgement she clutches tight to her chest. This time, they're ready for goodbyes.

"It's alright, Anne, there’s no need. Let's check on the painting."

She heads for the sitting room, Harry and Anne in her steps. She stops in front of it. This time, she feels at peace with her work. Proud even.

Harry is as beautiful as ever, a multilayered juxtaposition of all the times she's sat in front of Louis merging for one second on the canvas. She's sitting down, the burgundy dress folding pleasantly on her lap, hands joined sitting on stop of it.

Her head, turned towards them, is held high. But there's an ease to it that wasn't in Louis' first attempt. It's in the curve of her neck, the hint of her dimple, brown carving its valley. 

This time, there's the hint of a smile. One that has Louis' heart beat faster, one she can admire even better when she looks over at Harry. She's taking in the painting too, no trace of disappointment anywhere on her face. But it's her eyes. Her eyes slightly crinkled. Her eyes, the shadows of storms carefully placed them, the dancing flames. The eyes that have stared into Louis for so long now. The eyes are her favourite part.

Anne lets out a surprised sigh.

"Oh Louis. It's perfect."

She nods, looks over at Harry who knows what she's waiting for, a silent question resonating between them.

So, Harry answers.

"Yes, I love it."

Louis tries hard not to cry, to contain her emotions when she replies back.

"Thank you."

Liam comes to help move the portrait carefully into its case. In the end, though, it's the man who hammers the nails in. He takes it to the coach, as quickly gone as he’d arrived, not trying to help with Louis' bags this time. Niall takes care of them instead.

Louis had said goodbye to Anne in her office, right after receiving her due, a cordial affair that had left her with a residing affection for the woman. But now, as they're gathered together one last time, her emotions threaten to spill out in a devastating tidal wave.

She hugs Liam first.

"I hope you and Zayn remain as happy as you are. And thank you. For being so kind to me."

Liam squeezes her tighter and she feels a tremor in her body. She brushes her hair, almost letting out shushing sounds but Liam lets her go before she can, hands coming to wipe her eyes immediately.

Niall is next. She doesn't let Louis speak, wrapping her arms around her shoulders with strength. "Who the fuck am I gonna pester now, hm?"

Louis' chuckle hits her cheek, starting Niall's own.

"I know what you did for the ring. Thank you."

She feels her shrug against her body, thumb pressing down.

"Of course. Try to see some green, from time to time. Once you're back in Paris."

Louis let's out an ugly snort. Niall had been right, from the very beginning. Going back was not homecoming. It was heartbreak. 

Still, she reassures her. 

"I promise."

She lets her arms slide away from Niall, steps in front of Harry and doesn't know what to do.

But Harry knows. She takes her hands, fingers finding her ring to caress it gently, the way she'd touch Louis' neck sometimes. Leans in, foreheads touching, and breathes.

"I love you."

"I love you, too."

Louis' grips Harry tighter, presses their joined hands against her chest.

"I'll carry you."

She feels Harry's tears wetting her face, dripping slowly in tiny rivulets that come to die in the corners of her smile. One so big both dimples show, a beautiful parting gift. Harry brings their hands to her.

"And I'll carry you."

They let each other go, Louis walking to the coach as confidently as she can despite her insides crumbling, folding onto themselves like a dying pyre. She gets in, ignores the man waiting there or his attempts at small talk. Brings herself and her bags to port, where Anne has already paid for a small boat, one that'll take her to another coach. Alone.

Once they're at sea, she lets herself break down and, despite it all, never looks back.


	6. VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Playlist for this chapter](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0Hv0MI5j3BvOVyUpmRp9rF?si=zXs67kY1R_OjFmd05QKuhw)

The journey back to Paris is as long and dreary as she recalls. Even colder now, but they're lucky enough that it doesn't rain or snow. The air is dry, still. No warmth in sight.

Her sisters welcome her wonderfully, excited hands coming to hug her tight, even Lottie and Félicité joining in. They all ask about her trip, about what happened after her last letter, about whether she's had a nice birthday despite being away. They talk about their own celebrations, tell her about the new games they'd been gifted and the weird man that was at mass on Christmas day, and Louis finds enough enthusiasm to listen dutifully with a plastered smile on her face. By the end of the day, her sisters' stories have cheered her up enough that she doesn't want to cry when she lets her fingertips brush over her ring.

Being reunited with her father doesn't help in finding a new light, but at least it focuses her frustrations on one single target, keeping her from resenting the entire world for the rot that has taken place inside of her. They argue more often than not now, Louis biting her tongue even more than before. She never lets herself go in front of her sisters though, doesn't want to burden them in any way. 

She goes back to work. Her father has found a few commissions for her, his benefactors' wives asking for a portrait or two. It's enough to keep her busy even if the ladies' conversations are duller now, layers of pomp and transparent superficiality appearing clear as day, grating her nerves and weighing down on them.

A month passes, painstakingly slow, each day a stitch ripped off a healing wound, keeping it from scarring over. 

Sometimes at night, when the house is quiet apart from the crackle of the fires still burning, she can hear the roar of the sea and the howl of the wind if she listens carefully.

When it happens, she gets up, leaving the warmth of her bed laden with blankets to sit by the chimney, picking up paper and charcoal or watercolours on the way. She draws, she paints. Effortlessly digging into her brain to submerge into memories she's plastered on the walls of her mind. Some nights are slow, dedicated to tenderness, adoringly retracing the lines of Harry's face, her stance by the cliffs, the hollow of her throat resting above her open shirt. Others are swifter, sketches of her friends' laugh, of the abandoned chapel, of her armchair clothed in dust sheets.

But most are like storms, wild and wretched, her heart beating out of her chest with the fear that, someday, she'll forget something. That, someday, it'll all fade away, disappear into darkness.

So she draws, and keeps them all.

It takes her a few months to realise what her absence changed. One morning she wakes, perhaps earlier than before, spring light streaming through the windows to land on her face. As she heads to the kitchen, Lottie is already there, hands moving on the cutting board as she prepares breakfast.

"Want some help?"

Lottie looks up, a lovely smile blossoming on her face.

"Hi, Lou. I wouldn't mind, but you don't have to."

"I want to. I'd even say that that's supposed to be my job you're doing here, young lady," Louis jokes, but her voice is slightly too tight not to betray herself.

"I'm sorry I haven't been myself. I should take care of you more. I have been way too distracted."

Lottie just snorts, passing Louis the bread she's just fetched from the basket behind her.

"Nonsense. Look, Lou, as far as I can remember, you've taken care of us. Great care. You've been doing that for so long I think you forgot we could take care of you too."

She pauses, the sound of her knife too loud to try to speak over it.

"And I know you might have a hard time wrapping your head around it, but we can take care of ourselves too."

Louis feels her hand tremble, puts down the blade she's holding in fear of cutting herself. Lottie's own comes to rest on hers, forcing her to look up and meet her eyes.

"We love you. And we know you love us and we love that you care so much. But, Louis, being this family's caregiver was not your cross to bear. You did it, still, but it shouldn't have been so heavy. So now, we want to help, too."

It's too early to cry, and Louis feels like she's done too much of that lately. So instead, she just shrugs, an odd sigh leaving her lips. It almost sounds relieved.

"You're not a burden though, Lots. I love you, you're not a burden."

Lottie openly laughs at that.

"Come on, we can all admit we're a handful. Of course you love us, but that doesn't mean it's not true!"

Louis shrugs again, but this time she chuckles too, fingers picking her knife back up.

"Alright then. Understood."

Lottie nods sagely, pleased expression all over her face.

"Now, will you finally tell me why you now have a ring and one that you won't take off?" Félicité enters the kitchen right then, saving her from answering as she avoids Lottie's scrutiny.

"What's for breakfast?"

After a year passes, the pulsing ache turns into a new form of numbness. She sees Harry wherever she goes : in the curls of a model, in the clothes of a noble, in potted plants for sale in a shop's window. Sometimes, at night, she trembles, loses herself in her memories and pretends the hands that touch her aren't her own. She makes a half hearted attempt, once, to find someone else. But her insides stay cold and ashy, unwilling to settle for something lesser.

She dedicates herself to work instead, her growing number of commissioned works and patrons keeping her busy to her heart's content. She goes to parties once or twice, but the people she knew are long gone and even if they weren't, she's not sure she would have cherished their company. So, instead, she spends her free time reading, diving into books even more than before, her collection ever growing. Sometimes, when it's late at night and her eyes are blurry with exhaustion, she stops at the entrance of her room, the ghost of Harry's study dancing in front of her. It always dissipates too quickly for her taste.

Music brings more solace. She cleans the piano off of her sisters' accumulated clutter, teaches Phoebe and Daisy some pieces at their request, filling the house with songs again. Once every month, they all spend the evening outside at the theatre, or the opera, anywhere a troupe or orchestra plays something that might tickle their fancy. In those moments, surrounded by her sisters' joy and the thrill of discovery, she feels herself glow again.

Still, she knows she's growing weary of Paris, has been for a while. 

So, Louis keeps her promise.

When one of her patrons asks if she would be willing to paint his family during their stay in Milan, she accepts. Her sisters take the news better than she expected, Lottie and Félicité as reassuring as they are excited for her.

"As long as you send us letters, we're fine."

"And gifts. We don't mind gifts."

When she departs a month later, she thinks about Harry, about the words they exchanged in the dark, breaths tangling between them. Wonders if she'd be happy to know that, in the end, Louis listened to her and followed her advice. 

Milan is a beauty, welcoming Louis openly when she arrives at the end of August, sun warming the whole city, reflecting on marble and glass alike. Most of her time is spent working for the family, rich enough to commission a portrait for each of their children, the mother, as well as one where they all appear. Louis doesn't mind the work : the adults and oldest children are pleasant enough, and she has enough experience with younger ones to deal with any tantrum. Everyone is kind. Kind in the way most rich people are with artists they pay. She's as much at their service as completely free from them, her status of master painter completely romantic to their eyes, something to show off to their guests during parties. "Yes, we hired a French painter. Isn't she marvelous."

Louis doesn't care as long as she's paid to create. She has more time for leisure than before. Time to try and learn rudiments of Italian even if French is spoken enough for her to manage on her own. Time to read, to go to the opera, music a language universal enough to be enjoyed everywhere. Time to explore the city, to walk in the Indro Montanelli gardens, sit under a tree. Find greenery, the way Niall told her to. 

It's not the same, never the same, but better than nothing.

She stays six months before the desire to leave builds inside of her, numbness coming back, stronger than before.

So, once again, she leaves.

On her way back to Paris, she visits Florence and Venice. Lingers, really, spending a few months in each city, housed with artists under her benefactor's patronage. Each time, she soaks in the atmosphere that vibrates around her, the taste of the air, the people she meets. Painters, sculptors. An academic, too, teaching the history of art to young, malleable minds at the University of Florence. The man starkly reminds her of her father at first, features solemn, stuck in a perfect frown that seems etched in stone. He surprises her, revealing himself to be much more flexible in his views, eager to praise Louis' work, subject and skills. When they part ways, they promise to keep in touch.

Holding her sisters in her arms, pressing them close to her chest, has her tearing up immediately upon her return. It's been less than a year and yet time spent apart feels like an eternity. The twins have grown, standing several inches taller now than when she left, their heads resting underneath her chin comfortably. Félicité's hair is shorter, brushing past her shoulders when they used to reach the small of her back. Louis compliments her immediately. 

Lottie. Lottie's changes are more hidden, subtle but noticeable in Louis's eyes. It's the definition of her features, sharpening the way Louis' own had around her age. It's in her eyes too, the quiet determination she reads in them, in the barely there lines that speaks of her wide smile.

She hugs her tight as well.

Once the twins have gone to bed, arms heavy with the gifts Louis has brought back, they settle on the sofa by the open window, ask Louis to spin the tales of her adventures. She does, voice spilling secrets in the night, joined by the outburst of the June crowds outside.

After an hour or two, as Félicité's eyelids start to droop, Lottie lets out a question that echoes in Louis' core.

"So, were you happy?"

Her silence answers for her. But she wants to add something to it, to lessen its absolute.

"As happy as I can be."

When Louis' work and her father's are selected to be showcased in the London European exhibition, she expects him to go and go alone. She refuses to accompany him like she used to now that she knows what it's like to travel on her own, without the weight of his constant ire, critics and resentment slowing her down. 

But he doesn't. 

"Would you be willing to go to London? For the exhibition?" 

Louis stills, fork hovering above the piece of meat she was about to eat.

"What?"

Lottie's foot bumps her shin softly, probably in a sign of encouragement but she can't focus on it, her gaze set on her father. He doesn't look up when he repeats himself.

"I need to finish the epic for Monsieur de Laval. He requires it for his next ball, but with the size of it it'll need at least three weeks to dry and then another two for the varnish. That means I have to be here for the entire process." He finally glances at Louis, mouth set in a firm line despite his chewing. "So. Would you be willing to go to London? At least one of us should. And it can't be me."

Louis doesn't care that, despite being voiced as a question, her father's words sound more like a demand. Doesn't care that it means she'll have to refuse a new client's commission she was considering. Doesn't care at all.

Yet, it's not even her who answers first.

"She is. She'll go!"

Lottie is almost vibrating out of her skin, hands flat on the table as her eyes twinkle with excitement. Their father's gaze widens slightly, landing on her with a gentleness he never holds for Louis.

"Now, maybe we should let her answer for herself, hm?"

"She's right. I'm more than willing to."

Maybe he was expecting more resistance, but she doesn't want to take any chances, any risk of him changing his mind. Representing them means exploring again and London is an old friend she's eager to return to, fond memories already coursing through her.

Her father clears his throat, breaking her daze in an instant.

"Very well, then. I'll explain everything to you later."

"Thank you."

This time, his surprise is crystal clear.

The journey to London takes her through landscapes that feel achingly familiar. Normandy's hills are flatter, though, her coach easily following the curves of the road that splits them in half. This time, she doesn't come through Calais, the driver arguing that boats from Dieppe would take her to Brighton directly, bringing her closer to her destination than Dover would. She follows his advice, holds no opinion on the matter. The exhibition only opens in ten days and the paintings have been shipped a while ago. There's a margin of time, even if she was to get lost.

She doesn't. Her boat berths in Brighton the day she had planned to arrive on British soil. The town is a delight, the perfect coastal stop before making further way in the country. The small lanes, the tea shops, the port that dives into the sea : once combined, they all convince her to stay for a night, enjoy the sea she's admired and missed so much but, this time, from the other side of it. She finds a quaint room near the centre of town, grabbing something small for dinner so she can dedicate her time to what she really wants to do. And so, after an hour or so spent roaming the streets, she lets her feet follow the smell of salt in the air, leading her straight to the sea. 

She spends her evening with it, walking along the beaches before picking a spot that suits her, pebbles giving away underneath her soles. There, for the first time in a while, she allows herself to remember, get washed away in the tide that she always holds at bay.

She arrives in London the following night under a light drizzle of rain that feels familiar. It blurs the flickers of the lamps, diffusing their glow in the dark as the coach weaves through the streets to reach her father's friends' address. She has fond memories of the Pearson children, less recollection of their parents, but she decides here and then that she'll make an attempt to find other lodgings if she's met with any unpleasantness.

It turns out that she's not. Her mind didn't trick her, and the children did, in fact, take from their parents. They welcome her in easily, not minding that she generally comes and goes as she pleases. She follows the eldest to a party one of her close friends is throwing. She grows bored pretty soon. Instead of making another attempt at the experience, she takes the younger ones to the museum, finding her day much more rewarding this time. She explores the city as well, taking strolls through gardens and discovering Hyde Park with great delight. This, she thinks, might even count as greenery in Niall’s mind. 

"I was supposed to go to a concert tonight." Catherine sighs as Louis walks into the living room. No one else is with her, so Louis sits down. She must be talking to her.

"Well, did you change your mind?" she tries, prompting her host to resume her thought.

"Not really. Although, I mean, I'm not a big fan of them. A friend of David’s is a member of the Philharmonic Society and he invited us to this representation. I think the performer is… Italian? No, maybe his name sounds italian but it ended with something… Ah yes! Potter!"

Louis nods, still unsure of where this is going but eager to know.

"Anyway," Catherine waves the digression away, "David refused immediately but I was curious so I said yes. But now I have a headache, and the idea of spending such a long time in a stuffy room with so many people, especially with piano playing all evening and not being able to talk… it just sounds dreadful. But I don't want to waste it away. Plus, leaving an empty seat when you're in the invited section is just awfully rude."

Tendrils of hope and longing tickle at Louis' lungs, curling there in a way that's well-known, almost welcome.

"If you feel unwell, I can go. I love the piano, it'll be a pleasure for me, and that way no one will be the wiser. Did anyone expect you there?"

Catherine's eyes narrow, deep in thought.

"I don't think so. Our friend didn't say he'd go, and I didn't tell anyone I was going."

She smiles, lines of worry smoothing on her forehead.

"Well then, if you're sure, you're more than free to go."

Louis can't stop the joyful noise she lets out.

The theater is not as big as she's seen in Milan, even more compared to ones in Paris however, it's wonderfully decorated. Ochre curtains of crushed velvet frame the doors and round, ornate lamps wash the entrance in a warm, diffuse light that immediately makes her feel at ease. 

"I have a reservation. Under Catherine Pearson."

"Very well, Miss. Follow me."

The usher leads her to her seat : the view of the scene is nice, her chair placed at the very end of the row on the balcony, right by the door. She stops him before he can leave.

"Would you know tonight's program by any chance? I seem to have completely forgotten it somehow." 

He smiles reassuringly, placating her faked alarm immediately.

"Mozart sonatas, Miss. Performed by Cipriani Potter, member of the Philharmonic Society. If that's any reassurance, I heard he's very talented."

"It is," she nods, "thank you."

Her row neighbours fill in the box swiftly, as does the rest of the room and, Louis admits, Catherine was right. Empty seats are scarce.

As they wait for the performer, she watches the crowd. There's a couple in the second row. The woman is wearing an elegant pale pink gown that seems to be covered in pearls, undoubtedly expensive enough for a ball. The man is in a discussion with the man behind him, both of their faces growing a bit red. From what Louis sees, he refuses to take his hat off. She chuckles to herself.

Further back, there's a young woman dozing off, head slouched on the shoulder of someone who seems aggravated enough to be her mother. Still, she wraps her arm around her to keep her from falling off.

She notices a few other people before a man makes his entrance on scene.

He's tall, dark hair swooped on both sides of his long face. He sits on the piano stool, hands barely hovering long enough for silence to settle before he starts playing and Louis lets go.

A few pieces in, her heart constricts in her chest painfully, its beat thudding loudly in her ears. She recognises the notes immediately, has practiced them so much. _Sonata Facile_. How, amidst it all, did this melody detach itself so well of her sisters to get anchored in a memory that leaves her crestfallen? Her, trying so desperately trying to coax a siren into the open. Miraculously successful, drowning in green lakes. 

Her eyes sting almost instantly, wet and teary and they're drowning too, but she keeps silent. 

She wants no one to witness her grief.

The interval takes her by surprise. Her cheeks are mostly dry and she's glad for the low lights as the people in her row leave to stretch their legs. She doesn't, stay rooted in the same spot instead, forearms resting on the railing in front of her. Minutes pass, her eyes unfocused, glazed over as she tries to take hold of herself again. 

It's when the audience comes back, people standing up in one of the boxes facing here that she sees it.

A silhouette. Lean, dressed all in black. Brown curls tied together at the back of the head in an easy bun. Like night plaits that haven't been undone. Something she's seen before.

The figure raises her head, meets her eyes. Time stops.

Louis can hear her breathing, its rhythm increasing slowly, steadily, pulse following seconds after. She stands up.

"Are you okay, Miss?"

She manages to look away for a second to address her neighbour.

"Quite. Sorry, just need a bit of fresh air."

She darts away, feet already moving before she can process it, close to running but she's in public, she's not running. So she walks faster, body following the curve of the building to the other end of the room until suddenly, she stops. Her blood freezes, stone still in her limbs, on the verge of spilling out from her lips in dark red pebbles. 

She’s here. She’s right there, in front of her. She feels her before she sees her, before her eyes understand that Harry just appeared out of thin air in a way that _cannot_ be real and yet _feels_ so real it hurts. 

“Am I dreaming?” she asks, out loud, surprised by the sound of her own voice so distant, entirely detached from her body. 

The shape of Harry flinches at that, but flinches forward. An aborted movement that introduces a bigger one : she steps closer and falls upon Louis, into Louis, hands tenderly cupping her face, thumbs caressing her skin. Louis’ lids close at the touch, the imprints of Harry's fingers searing marks on her soul.

There’s a plush softness on her forehead, on her cheeks, right by her lips. “My darling,” Harry breathes out, “my beloved.”

It's her. Her voice, low and sweet and slow. Syrupy, coating everything in dark molasses that pools into her hungrily.

It’s her.

Harry's fingers clutch the back of her head more tightly, bringing Louis’ head to her neck as her own finds her resting place where Louis’ throat and shoulder meet. It sends a shockwave through Louis’ limbs, the echoes of countless twin embraces flowing back in her veins. She slowly circles Harry’s wrists with her hands, getting reacquainted with the skin she’s drawn so many times before from memory alone. What she couldn’t sketch or paint, however, is the pulse of Harry’s racing heart that throbs against Louis’ fingertips. She’s real. Real and warm and sobbing in Louis’ arms. She tightens them instinctively, afraid she’ll disappear. 

“Harry,” she whispers, earning a louder whimper from her, “Harry, _mon coeur, mon trésor_. Harry.”

They keep holding each other, Louis gently swaying them as her hands move to rest on Harry’s back, caressing it with the same ease she used to. As if no time had passed, no time at all. Her thumbs dig sweetly at the end of Harry’s shoulder blade, fitting there as they always did, anchored and not letting go. When Harry’s sniffles are quieter, further apart, one of Louis’ hands comes to rest on her neck, plays with the small strands of hair that have escaped her updo. Harry lets out a sigh at the touch, her forehead dragging closer still. 

Louis is aware that the concert has resumed, music filtering through the wall and the tiny sliver of space between it and the door that’s by them. But the notes of their shared breathing is greater, more enchanting than any other and she feels a wetness gathering at the corners of her eyes as she focuses on it.

Harry exhales against her cheek.

"I can't believe it's you. I can't believe you're here."

Louis lets out a wet, strangled noise that's supposed to be a laugh. But it comes out wrong, too overwhelmed to be anything but the distorted echo of years of sorrow.

"I can't believe _you're_ here," she repeats, breathing in Harry's smell, nose deep in her curls. "How are you even real?"

They don’t wait for the concert to end, spilling out of the double door into the streets, Harry leading them. She keeps glancing at Louis, fingers twitching by her side as if she’s barely stopping herself from reaching out, to make sure Louis is there, next to her. Right back where she fits, where she belongs.

They’re reaching one of the nicer burroughs, not dissimilar from where the Pearsons live. There are more lanterns in the streets and fewer people outside. When she looks up, almost all of the windows glow yellow.

“We’re here.”

Harry points at a heavy wooden door, each panel framed with a beautifully carved garland of leaves. The building’s entrance is just as polished, fawn and white tiles creating simple geometric designs on the floor leading to a large staircase, steps covered with a red velvet carpet. They stop on the first floor, Harry twisting a key she takes out of a small beaded purse into the lock to let them in.

Louis is immediately engulfed in warmth as she steps in, finding herself in a lovely room. She lets her eyes float, chest filling with an eerie sense of familiarity but she quickly understands why. She spots the collection of shells, this time neatly laid out on a small table. The sculpture of the pouring woman on the chimney mantle this time. There are many vases too, even if the dried flowers have changed. The books, though, are just as littered across the space as they once were, in Harry’s study.

When she turns around, Harry is already watching her.

“I’m - I. How are you here?” 

Harry's cheeks have dried by now, but she doesn’t look any less shocked or overwhelmed. Her voice wavers, shakes, and Louis wants to brush the inner part of her arm to reassure her but she doesn’t know, now that they’re here, in Harry’s home. She doesn’t know what is allowed.

“My work is getting displayed at the exhibition of European arts. My father’s too, actually. He couldn’t come, so I did instead.”

Harry nods slowly, taking in the information.

“You’re staying…?”

“With friends of my father’s, near Kensington.”

Something twitches on Harry’s brow, too fast for Louis to read its meaning.

“And how - how long are you staying?”

Louis’ lips tug up at that. Despite the years, she’s never forgotten Harry’s tells and maybe there’s a part of her that’s relieved because this, this she knows. No matter how long it’s been, no matter how much has happened, some things in Harry are the same.

“The exhibition starts in two days and lasts a month. I was thinking of staying at least the same amount,” she replies, watching with complete delight Harry’s nose scrunching slightly, trying to hold in a smile. She hasn’t realised she doesn’t have to.

There’s a beat of silence. Two.

Harry steps forward.

“I’m a poor host, I haven’t even asked if you wanted to sit.”

Louis feels her mouth purse, barely keeping her grin in.

“I’m fine standing up, but if you want us to sit down, I will.” She pauses, thinks about the silence ringing around them. “I wouldn’t want to impose on you. Or your… company.”

This time, Harry’s head tilt, a knowing look in her eyes.

“I don’t have any. I mean, Niall is probably out for tonight so she won’t come back for a while I presume.”

This manages to take Louis’ by surprise, all of her games and pretences falling down at Harry’s words and landing by her feet.

“Niall’s with you?”

“Yes, she is. She came with me when I left.” 

Harry takes another step. Louis refrains.

“What about your husband?”

This time, Harry doesn’t hide her smile.

“He’s dead.”

Louis’ eyes widen, glide down Harry’s figure but this time, it’s to study it more than appreciate it. The black ensemble, now, makes sense and yet, she’s finding it impossible to wrap her head around. To fully understand what it means. So, she offers what she so often hates.

“I’m sorry.”

Harry shrugs, dimple appearing and suddenly Louis can do nothing but take her in. Her lips, nose, her eyes that burn as vividly as before. The curls that slip out of her _chignon_ still, longer now than she remembers. So vastly different; so much the same.

“Don’t be, I prefer him that way.”

Louis hears the noise she makes. It’s something as surprised as affronted but more than anything else it’s amused and that alone has Harry chuckling, her laugh turning into bright peals of laughter the longer Louis remains speechless.

“Darling, you should see your face,” Harry blurts out, completely closing in on Louis now. Louis meets her halfway, hands already reaching out.

“How do you even want me to react to that? I didn’t know him, I didn’t want to be rude. And then you say something like that. How do you want me to look?”

Fondness seeps in her tone more than her intended reprimand but she has no mind to keep it to herself. Her fingers find Harry’s cheeks again, splaying wide, touching as much skin as they can reach. Harry seems content enough, lids closing at the touch as she hums a low, rumbly noise that, in some world, resembles a purr.

“Will you kiss me now?” she asks and Louis exhales.

“Thought you’d never ask.” 

She presses her smirk against Harry’s, lips moulding together seamlessly, as if they never parted.

They sit down at some point, but Harry makes a point of settling on Louis’ lap as they fill each other in on their added years. Louis learns that Harry left three months after her for Bath, Niall requesting to accompany her to her new home. Anne had accepted, and that had been that.

“Did you like the city, at least?”

Harry has to think before giving her answer, eyes settling on the flames flickering in the chimney.

“It’s pleasant. I don’t think the… social life was really my cup of tea, so to speak.”

Louis smiles at that, pecking her cheek. She has thousands to make up for.

“You mean that you had to rub elbows with people who had sticks up their-”

Harry’s cackle interrupts her before she can even finish.

“Yes, yes I did.”

She kisses Louis again, softly, tenderly. Like she’s savouring the taste of her.

“The Duke wasn’t that bad. Just, you know. Much more or the same. Exactly the type of person I’ve rebuffed all those years except that suddenly I couldn’t do that and I hated it. Louis. I was right. I had to hide me, to put some parts of me in boxes and hide them all and I hated it. I fucking hated it. And resented him. I resented him so much.”

Louis hums in understanding, letting her hands brush Harry’s back in comfort, leaning in to kiss her right brow. Then, her left one. Trying to show her that she doesn’t need to hide anything now.

“But when it got hard, I’d just get your drawing out. It helped, Lou. It helped so much because it was proof that someone saw me. The whole me, not that chopped up version. You saw the whole, complete me and that meant that despite it all, that underneath it all, it was still there. _I was still there_. And that, it helped.” She pauses, unknowingly allowing Louis to swallow her tears down, to not interrupt Harry with silent apologies. “Also, it felt like you, too. Like you were with me. That helped even more.” 

Harry’s hands gather on Louis’ sternum, feeling her chest rise and fall with each breath.

“His family wasn’t as bad as I thought. I think, all things considered, that I preferred their company to his. And I probably made it pretty clear since he started to find more and more reasons to leave and stay here.”

“Here?”

“Here. London. This apartment.”

Louis nudges her nose to Harry, letting it slide before brushing its tip with her own.

“How come?”

“Well, more of his friends were here. And there must have been at least one mistress. It was not as if he was going to get any satisfaction from me, apart from when I had to. But we never succeeded in having a child.” She pauses, sits back slightly to look at Louis, take more of her in. She resumes.

“I don’t know if that’s from me, or him. I didn’t care. But it frustrated him, so he’d leave even more. Made a habit of staying at his friend’s manor in the country, right between Bath and here.”

She goes to take Louis’ hands in her own, index tracing the contour of each of Louis' fingers. As she feels her ring, she looks down briefly, something stunned flashing in her eyes before she tucks it away, almost too quick to be noticed. Louis is glad she didn’t blink.

“That’s how he died. Hunting accident.”

Louis can’t help but snort, earning a smile from Harry.

“I know.”

“What happened next?” Louis prompts, nudging Harry’s wrist with the finger she’s holding tight.

“I didn’t want to marry any of my in-laws, which was definitely what they must have planned at first, since suddenly I was the Duchess and I was the one who would inherit everything but I just… I never wanted this. I never wanted to be the Duchess, Lou. So I did like you said. I picked myself.”

Louis nods again, bringing their hands to her mouth, kissing Harry’s fingertips.

“I made a deal. I told his brother that I would relinquish the title to him, make him Duke. Title and money and the land and free reign over everything. Give him everything. But only if I was allowed to keep this apartment and given an income. Annual, of course. A parting gift, I said.” Louis chuckles, picturing the scene vividly, her Harry standing up against a noble family to better leave them.

“And they accepted.”

“And they accepted,” Harry grins with a smug look on her face. “I mean, I promised to never remarry. Publicly, I’m mourning the loss of my husband that I loved very much, too heartbroken to ever wed again. So, that does look good for them, and he’s got everything he’s ever wanted. I’ve heard he’s made good investments already, so I won’t cost him much. He got a sweet deal,” She stops, breath hiccuping in her throat for the first time since she’s begun to recount the events. “I was pretty convincing. My heart was really locked away. They just didn’t know it always belonged to another.” Her eyes find Louis. “Still does.”

Louis has to close the space between them, slotting their lips together once before she whispers against them, their breath mixing beautifully, headily. Right.

“I missed you.”

Harry whimpers against her.

“I missed you too.”

Louis lets her fingers curl into the strands at the nape of Harry’s neck, guiding her head back to her, capturing her mouth once more. Her teeth catch on her bottom lip, pulling it between hers to taste her on her tongue. She hears another sound, soft and precious; feels Harry licking back. They take their time, kisses eager but unhurried, feeding into each other years of longing slowly, reverently.

They separate, time spent without notice.

“I’ve missed this too.”

Harry’s voice is barely a murmur, every word she speaks pressing the plush of her mouth against Louis’ in tiny kisses that tickle her flesh, unwilling to part.

She can only laugh, completely breathless.

“Me too, you have no idea.”

Harry sits slightly straighter, looks at Louis pointedly.

“Oh no, I think I have some idea. More than some, actually.”

The curl of heat that licks at Louis’ spine feels like a long-forgotten friend. Familiar, welcome even if she hadn’t noticed its absence, not really. Harry’s had taken everything with it: warmth, love, desire. Everything. And this burn is a delightful simmer, spreading steadily through all of her limbs.

“No need to tease me right now, sweetheart. We’ve got time.”

A thin veil of seriousness settles over Harry’s face at Louis’ words, her throat working around a gulp, skin barely moving, only betrayed by the shifting of shadows.

“Would you - you said you were here for a month.”

Louis grips her waist, thumbs drawing soothing circles into the thickness of her skirts, trying to reach her.

“I said at least a month.” 

“At least. But there’s - is there nothing in Paris? Nothing that needs your attention or that you need to go back to?”

Louis resists the urge to laugh, dampens it as soon as it rises but she can’t help but let escape a smile that finds purchase on her face too easily, full with incredulity. Harry doesn’t know, doesn’t realise. She needs to realise. So, Louis splits herself open, spreads herself bare, insides vulnerable to any harm that might come. But she does it fearlessly, completely trusting. Harry is safe with her, and she’s safe with Harry.

“Harry,” she sighs happily, “Harry, my love, do you really think that, even if there was, I’d go back? Do you really think that anything matters more than you? I’ve got patrons and clients, sure, but I can paint wherever. And I can find others, if needed, but I’m successful enough now to be recommended, and recommended well. To many people. Work isn’t an issue, not anymore. What matters is my sisters, and they’re fine without me as long as I can visit them often enough. Or maybe they can visit me next. But those are details.” She pauses, relishes in the blush blooming on Harry’s cheeks, colouring the high of them pink. Her right hand leaves Harry’s hips, comes to a stop right in front of Harry’s eyes, the silver of her ring glinting in the half-light. Harry inhales, chest suddenly very still.

“I haven’t taken it off. Never, not even once. If this isn’t enough, let me be very clear. I love you. If you want me to stay, in any way, shape or form, I’m yours. Harry, I’m yours. I’ve always been. You just have to say the word.”

Louis’ stomach erupts in butterflies at Harry’s visible bashfulness. She looks so much like she did three years ago it has Louis’ eyes stinging for no reason, except thankfulness to have Harry’s weight back in her arms. Harry’s fingers graze the crowned heart, the joined hands, shaking like autumn leaves. She looks at Louis, at her insides pouring out of her in waves and she reaches into her own chest, shows hers to Louis too.

“Stay. Stay with me. Here, or anywhere. _Please_ , stay with me. I love you too, Louis, please stay with me.” 

There’s a wet chuckle, half-choked but still loud, relieved as Louis nods repeatedly.

“Of course. Of course I will.”

Tears gather in Harry’s eyes, pearls of salt and sea that glitter like gemstones, her hands coming to hide her face as she laughs, nervousness and fear fizzing out of her. Bubbles in champagne.

“Thank God.” 

Their arms wrap around each other as they kiss, a mess of too big grins and teeth and tongue and elation but it doesn’t matter. They’re here. Together. 

Here.

**Five years later.**

There's nothing as far as the eye can see, sky blending in with the sea, the horizon a fine line blurred beyond recognition.

There’s a loud inhale behind Louis, followed by a drawn out exclamation, the kind that empties the lungs entirely.

“It’s so good to be back. I missed this!”

Niall’s voice seems loud against the breeze. But it’s not, not really. It’s the silence that welcomes them that is unusual, that would have been jarring if they had not been eased into it during their journey. Like slowly sinking into a warm bath after standing in the cold.

Niall is so fast it’s as if she’s skipping, feet barely touching the ground, skirts floating up then dragging down as she moves. She’s walking along the edge of the cliff, cresting waves crashing against the rocks below.

“She’s gonna trip to her death,” Louis grumbles, still keeping a careful eye over her friend as she follows a few meters behind.

“Darling, come on. She’s walked this entire place more than a thousand times. I can’t say the same about you, you’re the one who should be careful.”

Louis barely resists pulling a face at Harry, only allowing herself to roll her eyes to show how unimpressed with what she’s saying she is.

“Watch what you’re saying. I’ll run and get there before you both and then lock you out. They’ve brought everything already, all of our stuff and furniture and if I remember well you told me there’s even food. I can withstand a siege.”

There’s a bright cackle, peals of laughter that come closer and Louis doesn’t hide her smug smile as Harry steps into view.

“You wouldn’t. You love me too much. You wouldn’t leave me outside in the cold.”

Louis lets her gaze swipe over Harry, taking in her thick trousers and jacket, perfectly able to protect her from the autumn weather.

Still, she doesn’t want to point it out, prefers to push on something else.

“I’d let Niall in. She hasn’t done anything wrong.”

It earns her a gasp of mock-outrage, Harry’s arms winding around her waist to better bury the cold tip of her nose next to Louis’ ear. She shudders but doesn’t try to push her away; on the contrary, her fingers dig into Harry’s elbow to better anchor her.

Harry is pouting. She feels the moist flesh of her bottom lip on her neck. It’s not entirely unpleasant.

“You wouldn’t.”

“Nah, you’re right. I’ll let you in. Too soft on you anyway.”

The grin is immediate, pressed firmly against her skin.

“Not too soft. Perfect amount. Best amount.”

Louis makes an attempt at walking like this. It doesn’t fail completely: they make some progress, but it’s small and hesitant, their feet leading them further away from the edge.

“Come on, Harry, love. Let’s walk properly now, gotta let go.”

There’s another gasp as Harry’s warmth leaves her, the comfortable weight already gone when she turns to smile at her.

“My wife. Rejecting me like this. What a tragedy.”

Louis chuckles harder, trying to walk backwards to keep her eyes on Harry, stumbling slightly as she goes.

“Dear spouse of mine, I would _never_. I would just prefer it if we caught up with Niall. She’s the one who’ll lock us out if we dawdle for too long.”

Harry’s smile is wide, dimples etched deep in her cheeks and eyes crinkled with happiness as she closes in on Louis, hands cradling her face to place a kiss on her lips.

“She won’t. It’s my house now, she’ll have to let me in eventually.”

Louis raises a brow.

“And me.”

Harry tilts her head in agreement.

“And you.”

They manage to reach Niall in a few minutes, the silhouette of the manor becoming clearer and clearer as the distance between them diminishes. She must feel their presence, speaking up as soon as they’re within hearing distance.

“Do you think Liam and Zayn will arrive soon?”

Harry instantly replies, recalling aloud the content of their last letter.

“They said within the week, so maybe. Spain is a long way from here, and look how much time it took for us. I say we’ve got plenty of time to prepare everything right.”

Louis nods, tugging at Niall’s sleeve to slow her down. She does easily, their feet treading in the high grass and wildflowers in unison for a few moments.

As she looks up, Louis sees the glare of the windows of the first and second floors, sees the moss that’s grown over the grey stones of the facade. The wind pushes at her back, hurrying her forward as she can’t contain her smile anymore. She laces her fingers with Harry’s, squeezes them tight, feels her pulse race. Breathes.

“We’re home.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! If you liked it, please consider leaving kudos, commenting and/or reblogging one (or both !) of the fic post [here](https://cupcakentea.tumblr.com/post/639311294924767232/sea-asunder-68k-by-cupcakenteaits-only-then-as) or [here](https://cupcakentea.tumblr.com/post/639314470135611392/louis-harry-is-closer-now-moon-draping-over)!


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